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[See  page 

"as  though  she  listened  still  to  words  in  her  ears' 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Harper  &  Brothurs. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  March,  1903. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'as   though   she   listened   still   to   words   in 

HER  ears" Frontispiece 

LADY    HENRY    LISTENED    EAGERLY" Facing  p.    30 

"indeed    I    will!'    cried    sir   WILFRID,    AND   THEY 

WALKED  on" "            52 

LADY      HENRY      GASPED.       SHE      FELL      BACK      INTO 

HER    chair" "         100 

HE    ENTERED    UPON    A    MERRY    SCENE"             ...  "         242 

'for    MY    rose's    CHILD,'    HE    SAID,    GENTLY  "       .        .  "         254 

HER   HANDS   CLASPED    IN    FRONT   OF   HER"        ...  "         356 

SHE    FOUND    HERSELF    KNEELING    BESIDE    HIM "       .  "        480 


LADY   ROSE'S    DAUGHTER 


"T  TULLO!  No! — Yes! — upon  my  soul,  it  is  Jacob! 
1  1  Why,  Delafield,  my  dear  fellow,  how  are  you?" 

So  saying — on  a  February  evening  a  good  many  years 
ago — an  elderly  gentleman  in  evening  dress  flung  him- 
self out  of  his  cab,  which  had  just  stopped  before  a  house 
in  Bruton  Street,  and  hastily  went  to  meet  a  young 
man  who  was  at  the  same  moment  stepping  out  of  an- 
other hansom  a  little  farther  down  the  pavement. 

The  pleasure  in  the  older  man's  voice  rang  clear,  and 
the  younger  met  him  with  an  equal  cordiality,  expressed 
perhaps  through  a  manner  more  leisurely  and  restrained. 

"  So  you  are  home.  Sir  Wilfrid  ?  You  were  announced, 
I  saw.  But  I  thought  Paris  would  have  detained  you  a 
bit." 

"Paris?  Not  I!  Half  the  people  I  ever  knew  there 
are  dead,  and  the  rest  are  uncivil.  Well,  and  how  are 
you  getting  on?     Making  your  fortune,  eh?" 

And,  slipping  his  arm  inside  the  young  man's,  the 
speaker  walked  back  with  him,  along  a  line  of  carriages, 
towards  a  house  which  showed  a  group  of  footmen  at  its 
open  door.     Jacob  Delafield  smiled. 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"The  business  of  a  land  agent  seems  to  be  to  spend 
some  one  else's — as  far  as  I've  yet  gone." 

"Land  agent!     I  thought  you  were  at  the  bar?" 

"  I  was,  but  the  briefs  didn't  come  in.  My  cousin  of- 
fered me  the  care  of  his  Essex  estates.  I  like  the  coun- 
try— always  have.     So  I  thought  I'd  better  accept." 

"What  —  the  Duke?  Lucky  fellow!  A  regular  in- 
come, and  no  anxieties.  I  expect  you're  pretty  well 
paid?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  badly  paid,"  replied  the  young  man, 
tranquilly.     "  Of  course  you're  going  to  Lady  Henry's?" 

"Of  course.     Here  we  are." 

The  older  man  paused  outside  the  line  of  servants 
waiting  at  the  door,  and  spoke  in  a  lower  tone.  "  How 
is  she?     Failing  at  all?" 

Jacob  Delafield  hesitated.  "She's  grown  very  blind 
— and  perhaps  rather  more  infirm,  generally.  But  she 
is  at  home,  as  usual — every  evening  for  a  few  people, 
and  for  a  good  many  on  Wednesdays." 

"  Is  she  still  alone — or  is  there  any  relation  who  looks 
after  her?" 

"Relation?     No.     She  detests  them  all." 

"Except  you?" 

Delafield  raised  his  shoulders,  without  an  answering 
smile.  "  Yes,  she  is  good  enough  to  except  me.  You're 
one  of  her  trustees,  aren't  you?" 

"At  present,  the  only  one.  But  while  I  have  been 
in  Persia  the  lawyers  have  done  all  that  was  necessary. 
Lady  Henry  herself  never  writes  a  letter  she  can  help. 
I  really  have  heard  next  to  nothing  about  her  for  more 
than  a  year.  This  morning  I  arrived  from  Paris — sent 
round  to  ask  if  she  would  be  at  home— and  here  I  am." 

2 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Ah!"  said  Delafield,  looking  down.  "Well,  there 
is  a  lady  who  has  been  with  her,  now,  for  more  than 
two  years — " 

"Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  remember.  Old  Lady  Seathwaite  told 
me — last  year.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton — isn't  that  her 
name?  What — she  reads  to  her,  and  writes  letters  for 
her — that  kind  of  thing?" 

"Yes — that  kind  of  thing,"  said  the  other,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation.  "Wasn't  that  a  spot  of  rain?  Shall 
I  charge  these  gentry?" 

And  he  led  the  way  through  the  line  of  footmen, 
which,  however,  was  not  of  the  usual  Mayfair  density. 
For  the  party  within  was  not  a  "crush."  The  hostess 
who  had  collected  it  was  of  opinion  that  the  chief  object 
of  your  house  is  not  to  entice  the  mob,  but  to  keep  it  out. 

The  two  men  mounted  the  stairs  together. 

"What  a  charming  house!"  said  the  elder,  looking 
round  him.  "I  remember  when  your  uncle  rebuilt  it. 
And  before  that,  I  remember  his  mother,  the  old  Duch- 
ess here,  with  her  swarm  of  parsons.  Upon  my  word, 
London  tastes  good — after  Teheran!" 

And  the  speaker  threw  back  his  fair,  grizzled  head, 
regarding  the  lights,  the  house,  the  guests,  with  the  air 
of  a  sensitive  dog  on  a  familiar  scent. 

"Ah,  you're  fresh  home,"  said  Delafield,  laughing. 
"  But  let's  just  try  to  keep  you  here — " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  who  is  that  at  the  top  of  the  stairs?" 

The  old  diplomat  paused.  In  front  of  the  pair  som« 
half  a  dozen  guests  were  ascending,  and  as  many  coming 
down.  At  the  top  stood  a  tall  lady  in  black,  receiving 
and  dismissing. 

Delafield  looked  up. 

3 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"That  is  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"She  receives?" 

"She  distributes  the  guests.  Lady  Henry  generally 
establishes  herself  in  the  back  drawing-room.  It  doesn't 
do  for  her  to  see  too  many  people  at  once.  Mademoiselle 
arranges  it." 

"Lady  Henry  must  indeed  be  a  good  deal  more  help- 
less than  I  remember  her,"  murmured  Sir  Wilfrid,  in 
some  astonishment. 

"She  is,  physically.  Oh,  no  doubt  of  it!  Other- 
wise you  won't  find  much  change.  Shall  I  introduce 
you?" 

They  were  approaching  a  woman  whose  tall  slender- 
ness,  combined  with  a  remarkable  physiognomy,  ar- 
rested the  old  man's  attention.  She  was  not  handsome 
— that,  surely,  was  his  first  impression?  The  cheek- 
bones were  too  evident,  the  chin  and  mouth  too  strong. 
And  yet  the  fine  pallor  of  the  skin,  the  subtle  black- 
and-white,  in  which,  so  to  speak,  the  head  and  face  were 
drawn,  the  life,  the  animation  of  the  whole — were  these 
not  beauty,  or  more  than  beauty?  As  for  the  eyes,  the 
carriage  of  the  head,  the  rich  magnificence  of  hair,  ar- 
ranged with  an  artful  eighteenth  -  century  freedom,  as 
Madame  Vig^e  Le  Brun  might  have  worn  it — with  the 
second  glance  the  effect  of  them  was  such  that  Sir 
Wilfrid  could  not  cease  from  looking  at  the  lady  they 
adorned.  It  was  an  effect  as  of  something  over-living, 
over -brilliant  —  an  animation,  an  intensity,  so  strong 
that,  at  first  beholding,  a  by-stander  couid  scarcely  tell 
whether  it  pleased  him  or  no. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton — Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,"  said  Ja- 
cob Delafield,  introducing  them. 

4 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Is  she  French?"  thought  the  old  diplomat,  puzzled. 
"And — have  I  ever  seen  her  before?" 

"Lady  Henry  will  be  so  glad!"  said  a  low,  agreeable 
voice.  "You  are  one  of  the  old  friends,  aren't  you?  I 
have  often  heard  her  talk  of  you." 

"You  are  very  good.  Certainly,  I  am  an  old  friend — 
a  connection  also."  There  was  the  slightest  touch  of 
stiffness  in  Sir  Wilfrid's  tone,  of  which  the  next  moment 
he  was  ashamed.  "I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that  Lady 
Henry  has  grown  so  much  more  helpless  since  I  left 
England." 

"She  has  to  be  careful  of  fatigue.  Two  or  three 
people  go  in  to  see  her  at  a  time.  She  enjoys  them 
more  so." 

"In  my  opinion,"  said  Delafield,  "one  more  device  of 
milady's  for  getting  precisely  what  she  wants." 

The  young  man's  gay  undertone,  together  with  the 
look  which  passed  between  him  and  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton,  added  to  Sir  Wilfrid's  stifled  feeling  of  surprise. 

"You'll  tell  her,  Jacob,  that  I'm  here?"  He  turned 
abruptly  to  the  young  man. 

"  Certainly — when  mademoiselle  allows  me.  Ah,  here 
comes  the  Duchess!"  said  Delafield,  in  another  voice. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  who  had  moved  a  few  steps 
away  from  the  stair-head  with  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,  turned 
hastily.  A  slight,  small  woman,  delicately  fair  and  spark- 
ling with  diamonds,  was  coming  up  the  stairs  alone. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  new-comer,  holding  out  her 
hands  eagerly  to  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  "  I  felt  I  must 
just  run  in  and  have  a  look  at  you.  But  Freddie  says  that 
I've  got  to  meet  him  at  that  tiresome  Foreign  Office! 
So  I  can  only  stay  ten  minutes.     How  are  you?" — then, 

5 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

in  a  lower  voice,  almost  a  whisper,  which,  however, 
reached  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury's  ears — "worried  to  death?" 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  raised  eyes  and  shoulders  for 
a  moment,  then,  smiling,  put  her  finger  to  her  Hp. 

"  You're  coming  to  me  to-morrow  afternoon?"  said  the 
Duchess,  in  the  same  half-whisper. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  get  away." 

"Nonsense!  My  dear,  you  must  have  some  air  and 
exercise!     Jacob,  will  you  see  she  comes?" 

"Oh,  I'm  no  good,"  said  that  young  man,  turning 
away.     "Duchess,  you  remember  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury?" 

"She  would  be  an  unnatural  goddaughter  if  she 
didn't,"  said  that  gentleman,  smiling.  "She  may  be 
your  cousin,  but  I  knew  her  before  you  did." 

The  young  Duchess  turned  with  a  start. 

"  Sir  Wilfrid !  A  sight  for  sair  een.  When  did  you  get 
back?" 

She  put  her  slim  hands  into  both  of  his,  and  showered 
upon  him  all  proper  surprise  and  the  greetings  due  to  her 
father's  oldest  friend.  Voice,  gesture,  words — all  were 
equally  amiable,  well  trained,  and  perfunctory — Sir  Wil- 
frid was  well  aware  of  it.  He  was  possessed  of  a  fine, 
straw-colored  mustache,  and  long  eyelashes  of  the  same 
color.  Both  eyelashes  and  mustache  made  a  screen 
behind  which,  as  was  well  known,  their  owner  observed 
the  world  to  remarkably  good  purpose.  He  perceived 
the  ditference  at  once  when  the  Duchess,  having  done 
her  social  and  family  duty,  left  him  to  return  to  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton. 

"  It  was  such  a  bore  you  couldn't  come  this  afternoon! 
I  wanted  you  to  see  the  babe  dance — she's  too  great  a 
duck!     And  that  Canadian  girl  came  to  sing.     The  voice 

6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

is  magnificent — but  she  has  some  tiresome  tricks! — and 
/  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  her.  As  to  the  other  music 
on  the  1 6th — I  say,  can't  we  find  a  corner  somewhere?" 
And  the  Duchess  looked  round  the  beautiful  drawing- 
room,  which  she  and  her  companions  had  just  entered, 
with  a  dissatisfied  air. 

"Lady  Henry,  you'll  remember,  doesn't  like  corners," 
said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  smiling.  Her  tone,  deli- 
cately free  and  allusive,  once  more  drew  Sir  Wilfrid's 
curious  eyes  to  her,  and  he  caught  also  the  impa- 
tient gesture  with  which  the  Duchess  received  the  re- 
mark. 

"Ah,  that's  all  right!"  said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton, 
suddenly,  turning  round  to  himself.  "  Here  is  Mr.  Mon- 
tresor — going  on,  too,  I  suppose,  to  the  Foreign  Office. 
Now  there'll  be  some  chance  of  getting  at  Lady  Henry." 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  down  the  drawing-room,  to  see  the 
famous  War  Minister  coming  slowly  through  the  well- 
filled  but  not  crowded  room,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
exchange  a  greeting  or  a  farewell,  and  much  hampered, 
as  it  seemed,  in  so  doing,  by  a  pronounced  and  disfigur- 
ing short-sight.  He  was  a  strongly  built  man  of  more 
than  middle  height.  His  iron-gray  hair,  deeply  carved 
features,  and  cavernous  black  eyes  gave  him  the  air 
of  power  that  his  reputation  demanded.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  difficulty  of  eyesight,  combined  with  the  mark- 
ed stoop  of  overwork,  produced  a  qualifying  impression 
— as  of  power  teased  and  fettered,  a  Samson  among  the 
Philistines. 

"  My  dear  lady,  good-night.  I  must  go  and  fight  with 
wild  beasts  in  Whitehall  —  worse  luck!  Ah,  Duchess! 
All  very  well — but  you  can't  shirk  either!" 

7 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

So  saying,  Mr.  Montresor  shook  hands  with  Mademoi- 
selle Le  Breton  and  smiled  upon  the  Duchess  —  both 
actions  betraying  precisely  the  same  degree  of  playful 
intimacy. 

"How  did  you  find  Lady  Henry?"  said  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton,  in  a  lowered  voice. 

"Very  well,  but  very  cross.  She  scolds  me  perpet- 
ually— I  haven't  got  a  skin  left.  Ah,  Sir  Wilfrid! — very 
glad  to  see  you!  When  did  you  arrive?  I  thought  I 
might  perhaps  find  you  at  the  Foreign  Office." 

"I'm  going  on  there  presently,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid. 

"Ah,  but  that's  no  good.  Dine  with  me  to-morrow 
night? — if  you  are  free?  Excellent! — that's  arranged. 
Meanwhile — send  him  in,  mademoiselle — send  him  in! 
He's  fresh — let  him  take  his  turn."  And  the  Minister, 
grinning,  pointed  backward  over  his  shoulder  towards 
an  inner  drawing-room,  where  the  form  of  an  old  lady, 
seated  in  a  wheeled  invalid  -  chair  between  two  other 
persons,  could  be  just  dimly  seen. 

"When  the  Bishop  goes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Le  Bre- 
ton, with  a  laughing  shake  of  the  head.  "But  I  told 
him  not  to  stay  long." 

"  He  won't  want  to.  Lady  Henry  pays  no  more  atten- 
tion to  his  cloth  than  to  my  gray  hairs.  The  rating  she 
has  just  given  me  for  my  speech  of  last  night!  Well, 
good-night,  dear  lady — good-night.  You  are  better,  I 
think?" 

Mr.  Montresor  threw  a  look  of  scrutiny  no  less  friendly 
than  earnest  at  the  lady  to  whom  he  was  speaking;  and 
immediately  afterwards  Sir  Wilfrid,  who  was  wedged  in 
by  an  entering  group  of  people,  caught  the  murmured 
words : 

8 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Consult  me  when  you  want  me — at  any  time." 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to 
the  speaker  in  a  mute  gratitude. 

"And  five  minutes  ago  I  thought  her  plain!"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid  to  himself  as  he  moved  away.  "Upon  my 
word,  for  a  dame  de  compagnie  that  young  woman  is  at 
her  ease!  But  where  the  deuce  have  I  seen  her,  or  her 
double,  before?" 

He  paused  to  look  round  the  room  a  moment,  before 
yielding  himself  to  one  of  the  many  possible  conversa- 
tions which,  as  he  saw,  it  contained  for  him.  It  was  a 
stately  panelled  room  of  the  last  century,  furnished  with 
that  sure  instinct  both  for  comfort  and  beauty  which  a 
small  minority  of  English  rich  people  have  always  pos- 
sessed. Two  glorious  Gainsboroughs,  clad  in  the  subtlest 
brilliance  of  pearly  white  and  shimmering  blue,  hung  on 
either  side  of  the  square  opening  leading  to  the  inner 
room.  The  fair,  clouded  head  of  a  girl,  by  Romney,  look- 
ed down  from  the  panelling  above  the  hearth.  A  gown- 
ed abb6,  by  Vandyck,  made  the  centre  of  another  wall, 
facing  the  Gainsboroughs.  The  pictures  were  all  famous, 
and  had  been  associated  for  generations  with  the  Dela- 
field  name.  Beneath  them  the  carpets  were  covered  by 
fine  eighteenth-century  furniture,  much  of  it  of  a  florid 
Italian  type  subdued  to  a  delicate  and  faded  beauty  by 
time  and  use.  The  room  was  cleverly  broken  into  vari- 
ous circles  and  centres  for  conversation ;  the  chairs  were 
many  and  comfortable;  flowers  sheltered  tete-a-tetes  or 
made  a  setting  for  beautiful  faces;  the  lamps  were  soft, 
the  air  warm  and  light.  A  cheerful  hum  of  voices  rose, 
as  of  talk  enjoyed  for  talking's  sake;  and  a  general 
effect  of  intimacy,  or  gayety,  of  an  unfeigned  social 

9 


Lady    Rose's   Daughter 

pleasure,  seemed  to  issue  from  the  charming  scene  and 
communicate  itself  to  the  onlooker. 

And  for  a  few  moments,  before  he  was  discovered  and 
tumultuously  annexed  by  a  neighboring  group,  Sir  Wil- 
frid watched  the  progress  of  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton 
through  the  room,  with  the  young  Duchess  in  her  wake. 
Wherever  she  moved  she  was  met  with  smiles,  defer- 
ence, and  eager  attention.  Here  and  there  she  made  an 
introduction,  she  redistributed  a  group,  she  moved  a 
chair.  It  was  evident  that  her  eye  was  everywhere, 
that  she  knew  every  one ;  her  rule  appeared  to  be  at  once 
absolute  and  welcome.  Presently,  when  she  herself  ac- 
cepted a  seat,  she  became,  as  Sir  Wilfrid  perceived  in 
the  intervals  of  his  own  conversation,  the  leader  of  the 
most  animated  circle  in  the  room.  The  Duchess,  with 
one  delicate  arm  stretched  along  the  back  of  Made- 
moiselle Le  Breton's  chair,  laughed  and  chattered;  two 
young  girls  in  virginal  white  placed  themselves  on  big 
gilt  footstools  at  her  feet;  man  after  man  joined  the 
group  that  stood  or  sat  around  her;  and  in  the  centre  of 
it,  the  brilliance  of  her  black  head,  sharply  seen  against 
a  background  of  rose  brocade,  the  grace  of  her  tall 
form,  which  was  thin  almost  to  emaciation,  the  ex- 
pressiveness of  her  strange  features,  the  animation  of 
her  gestures,  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  drew  the  eyes 
and  ears  of  half  the  room  to  Lady  Henry's  "com- 
panion." 

Presently  there  was  a  movement  in  the  distance.  A 
man  in  knee-breeches  and  silver-buckled  shoes  emerged 
from  the  back  drawing-room.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton 
rose  at  once  and  went  to  meet  him. 

"The  Bishop  has  had  a  long  innings,"  said  an  old 

10 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

general  to  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury.  "And  here  is  Mademoiselle 
Julie  coming  for  you." 

Sir  Wilfrid  rose,  in  obedience  to  a  smiling  sign  from 
the  lady  thus  described,  and  followed  her  floating  black 
draperies  towards  the  farther  room. 

"Who  are  those  two  persons  with  Lady  Henry?"  he 
asked  of  his  guide,  as  they  approached  the  penetralia 
where  reigned  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "Ah,  I  see! — 
one  is  Dr.  Meredith — but  the  other?" 

"  The  other  is  Captain  Wark worth,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton.     "Do  you  know  him?" 

' '  Warkworth  —  Warkworth  ?  Ah  —  of  course  —  the 
man  who  distinguished  himself  in  the  Mahsud  expedi- 
tion.    But  why  is  he  home  again  so  soon?" 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  smiled  uncertainly. 

"I  think  he  was  invalided  home,"  she  said,  with  that 
manner,  at  once  restrained  and  gracious,  that  Sir  Wilfrid 
had  already  observed  in  her.  It  was  the  manner  of  some 
one  who  counted;  and — through  all  outward  modesty — 
knew  it. 

"  He  wants  something  out  of  the  ministry.  I  remem- 
ber the  man,"  was  Sir  Wilfrid's  unspoken  comment. 

But  they  had  entered  the  inner  room.  Lady  Henry 
looked  round.  Over  her  wrinkled  face,  now  parchment- 
white,  there  shone  a  ray  of  pleasure — sudden,  vehement, 
and  unfeigned. 

"Sir  Wilfrid!" 

She  made  a  movement  as  though  to  rise  from  her  chair, 
which  was  checked  by  his  gesture  and  her  helplessness. 

"Well,  this  is  good  fortune,"  she  said,  as  she  put  both 
her  hands  into  both  of  his.  "This  morning,  as  I  was 
dressing,  I  had  a  feeling  that  something  agreeable  was 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

going  to  happen  at  last — and  then  your  note  came.  Sit 
down  there.  You  know  Dr.  Meredith.  He's  as  quarrel- 
some as  ever.     Captain  Warkworth — Sir  Wilfrid  Bury." 

The  square-headed,  spectacled  journalist  addressed  as 
Dr.  Meredith  greeted  the  new-comer  with  the  quiet  cord- 
iality of  one  for  whom  the  day  holds  normally  so  many 
events  that  it  is  impossible  to  make  much  of  any  one  of 
them.  And  the  man  on  the  farther  side  of  Lady  Henry 
rose  and  bowed.  He  was  handsome,  and  slenderly  built. 
The  touch  of  impetuosity  in  his  movement,  and  the  care- 
less ease  with  which  he  carried  his  curly  head,  somehow 
surprised  Sir  Wilfrid.  He  had  expected  another  sort  of 
person. 

"  I  will  give  you  my  chair,"  said  the  Captain,  pleasant- 
ly.    "I  have  had  more  than  my  turn." 

"Shall  I  bring  in  the  Duchess?"  said  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton,  in  a  low  tone,  as  she  stooped  over  the  back  of 
Lady  Henry's  chair. 

That  lady  turned  abruptly  to  the  speaker. 

"Let  her  do  precisely  as  she  pleases,"  said  a  voice, 
sharp,  lowered  also,  but  imperious,  like  the  drawing  of  a 
sword.     "  If  she  wants  me,  she  knows  where  I  am." 

"She  would  be  so  sorry — " 

"Ne  jouez  pas  la  com^die,  ma  chere!  Where  is 
Jacob?" 

"  In  the  other  room.     Shall  I  tell  him  you  want  him?" 

"I  v/ill  send  for  him  when  it  suits  me.  Meanwhile, 
as  I  particularly  desired  you  to  let  me  know  when  he 
arrived — " 

"He  has  only  been  here  twenty  minutes,"  murmured 
Mademoiselle  Le  Breton.  "I  thought  while  the  Bishop 
was  here  you  would  not  like  to  be  disturbed — " 

12 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"You  thought!"  The  speaker  raised  her  shoulders 
fiercely.  "Comme  toujours,  vous  vous  ^tes  trop  bien 
amusde  pour  vous  souvenir  de  mes  instructions — voila 
la  v6rite  !  Dr.  Meredith,"  the  whole  imperious  form 
swung  round  again  towards  the  journalist,  "unless  you 
forbid  me,  I  shall  tell  Sir  Wilfrid  who  it  was  reviewed  his 
book  for  you." 

"Oh,  good  Heavens!  I  forbid  you  with  all  the  energy 
of  which  I  am  capable,"  said  the  startled  journalist, 
raising  appealing  hands,  while  Lady  Henry,  delighted 
with  the  effect  produced  by  her  sudden  shaft,  sank  back 
in  her  chair  and  grimly  smiled. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury's  attention  was  still  held 
by  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton.  In  the  conversation  be- 
tween her  and  Lady  Henry  he  had  noticed  an  extraor- 
dinary change  of  manner  on  the  part  of  the  younger 
lady.  Her  ease,  her  grace  had  disappeared.  Her  tone 
was  humble,  her  manner  quivering  with  nervous  anxiety. 
And  now,  as  she  stood  a  moment  behind  Lady  Henry's 
chair,  one  trembling  hand  steadying  the  other,  Sir 
Wilfrid  was  suddenly  aware  of  yet  another  impression. 
Lady  Henry  had  treated  her  companion  with  a  contempt- 
uous and  haughty  ill  -  humor.  Face  to  face  with  her 
mistress,  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  had  borne  it  with  sub- 
mission, almost  with  servility.  But  now,  as  she  stood 
silent  behind  the  blind  old  lady  who  had  flouted  her,  her 
wonderfully  expressive  face,  her  delicate  frame,  spoke 
for  her  with  an  energy  not  to  be  mistaken.  Her  dark 
eyes  blazed.  She  stood  for  anger;  she  breathed  humilia- 
tion. 

"A  dangerous  woman,  and  an  extraordinary  situa- 
tion," so  ran  his  thought,  while  aloud  he  was  talking 

13 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Central  Asian  politics  and  the  latest  Simla  gossip  to  his 
two  companions. 

Meanwhile,  Captain  Warkworth  and  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton  returned  together  to  the  larger  drawing-room, 
and  before  long  Dr.  Meredith  took  his  leave.  Lady- 
Henry  and  her  old  friend  were  left  alone. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  your  sight  troubles  you  more 
than  of  old,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  drawing  his  chair  a  little 
nearer  to  her. 

Lady  Henry  gave  an  impatient  sigh.  "Everything 
troubles  me  more  than  of  old.  There  is  one  disease  from 
which  no  one  recovers,  my  dear  Wilfrid,  and  it  has  long 
since  fastened  upon  me." 

"  You  mean  old  age?  Oh,  you  are  not  so  much  to  be 
pitied  for  that,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  smiling.  "  Many  people 
would  exchange  their  youth  for  your  old  age." 

"Then  the  world  contains  more  fools  than  even  I  give 
it  credit  for!"  said  Lady  Henry,  with  energy.  "Why 
should  any  one  exchange  with  me — a  poor,  blind,  gouty 
old  creature,  with  no  chick  or  child  to  care  whether  she 
lives  or  dies?" 

"Ah,  well,  that's  a  misfortune — I  won't  deny  that," 
said  Sir  Wilfrid,  kindly.  "But  I  come  home  after  three 
years.  I  find  your  house  as  thronged  as  ever,  in  the 
old  way.  I  see  half  the  most  distinguished  people  in 
London  in  your  drawing-room.  It  is  sad  that  you  can 
no  longer  receive  them  as  you  used  to  do :  but  here  you 
sit  like  a  queen,  and  people  fight  for  their  turn  with 
you." 

Lady  Henry  did  not  smile.  She  laid  one  of  her 
wrinkled  hands  upon  his  arm. 

"Is  there  any  one  else  within  hearing?"  she  said,  in  a 

14 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

quick  undertone.  Sir  Wilfrid  was  touched  by  the  vague 
helplessness  of  her  gesture,  as  she  looked  round  her. 

"No  one — we  are  quite  alone." 

"They  are  not  here  for  ine — those  people,"  she  said, 
quivering,  with  a  motion  of  her  hand  towards  the  large 
drawing-room. 

"My  dear  friend,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"They  are  here  —  come  closer,  I  don't  want  to  be 
overheard — for  a  woman — whom  I  took  in,  in  a  moment 
of  lunacy — who  is  now  robbing  me  of  my  best  friends 
and  supplanting  me  in  my  own  house." 

The  pallor  of  the  old  face  had  lost  all  its  waxen  dig- 
nity. The  lowered  voice  hissed  in  his  ear.  Sir  Wilfrid, 
startled  and  repelled,  hesitated  for  his  reply.  Mean- 
while, Lady  Henry,  who  could  not  see  it,  seemed  at  once 
to  divine  the  change  in  his  expression. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  mad,"  she  said,  im- 
patiently, "or  ridiculous.  Well,  see  for  yourself,  judge 
for  yourself.  In  fact,  I  have  been  looking,  hungering, 
for  your  return.  You  have  helped  me  through  emer- 
gencies before  now.  And  I  am  in  that  state  at  present 
that  I  trust  no  one,  talk  to  no  one,  except  of  banalites. 
But  I  should  be  greatly  obliged  if  yoii  would  come 
and  listen  to  me,  and,  what  is  more,  advise  me  some 
day." 

"Most  gladly,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  embarrassed;  then, 
after  a  pause,  "Who  is  this  lady  I  find  installed  here?" 

Lady  Henry  hesitated,  then  shut  her  strong  mouth 
on  the  temptation  to  speak. 

"It  is  not  a  story  for  to-night,"  she  said;  "and  it 
would  upset  me.  But,  when  you  first  saw  her,  how  did 
she  strike  you?" 

15 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  saw  at  once,"  said  her  companion  after  a  pause, 
"that  you  had  caught  a  personahty." 

"A  personahty!"  Lady  Henry  gave  an  angry  laugh. 
"That's  one  way  of  putting  it.  But  physically — did  she 
remind  you  of  no  one?" 

Sir  Wilfrid  pondered  a  moment. 

"  Yes.  Her  face  haunted  me,  when  I  first  saw  it.  But 
— no;  no,  I  can't  put  any  names." 

Lady  Henry  gave  a  little  snort  of  disappointment. 

"Well,  think.  You  knew  her  mother  quite  well. 
You  have  known  her  grandfather  all  your  life.  If  you're 
going  on  to  the  Foreign  Office,  as  I  suppose  you  are,  you'll 
probably  see  him  to-night.  She  is  uncannily  like  him. 
As  to  her  father,  I  don't  know — but  he  was  a  rolling- 
stone  of  a  creature;  you  ver}^  likely  came  across  him." 

"  I  knew  her  mother  and  her  father?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
astonished  and  pondering. 

"  They  had  no  right  to  be  her  mother  and  her  father," 
said  Lady  Henry,  with  grimness. 

"Ah!     So  if  one  does  guess — " 

"You'll  please  hold  your  tongue." 

"But  at  present  I'm  completely  mystified,"  said  Sir 
Wilfrid. 

"Perhaps  it  '11  come  to  you  later.  You've  a  good 
memory  generally  for  such  things.  Anyway,  I  can't 
tell  you  anything  now.  But  when  '11  you  come  again? 
To-morrow — luncheon?     I  really  want  you." 

"Would  you  be  alone?" 

"Certainly.  That,  at  least,  I  can  still  do — lunch  as  I 
please,  and  with  whom  I  please.  Who  is  this  coming 
in?     Ah,  you  needn't  tell  me." 

The  old  lady  turned  herself  towards  the  entrance,  with 

i6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

a  stiffening  of  the  whole  frame,  an  instinctive  and  pas- 
sionate dignity  in  her  whole  aspect,  which  struck  a  thrill 
through  her  companion. 

The  little  Duchess  approached,  amid  a  flutter  of  satin 
and  lace,  heralded  by  the  scent  of  the  Parma  violets  she 
wore  in  profusion  at  her  breast  and  waist.  Her  eye 
glanced  uncertainly,  and  she  approached  with  daintiness, 
like  one  stepping  on  mined  ground. 

"Aunt  Flora,  I  must  have  just  a  minute." 

"I  know  no  reason  against  your  having  ten,  if  you 
want  them,"  said  Lady  Henry,  as  she  held  out  three 
fingers  to  the  new-comer.  "You  promised  yesterday  to 
come  and  give  me  a  full  account  of  the  Devonshire 
House  ball.  But  it  doesn't  matter — and  you  have  for- 
gotten," 

"No,  indeed,  I  haven't,"  said  the  Duchess,  embar- 
rassed. "  But  you  seemed  so  well  employed  to-night, 
with  other  people.     And  now — " 

"Now  you  are  going  on,"  said  Lady  Henry,  v/ith  a 
most  unfriendly  suavity. 

"Freddie  says  I  must,"  said  the  other,  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  protesting  child. 

''Alors!"  said  Lady  Henry,  lifting  her  hand.  "We 
all  know  how  obedient  you  are.     Good-night!" 

The  Duchess  flushed.  She  just  touched  her  aunt's 
hand,  and  then,  turning  an  indignant  face  on  Sir  Wilfrid, 
she  bade  him  farewell  with  an  air  which  seemed  to  him 
intended  to  avenge  upon  his  neutral  person  the  treat- 
ment which,  from  Lady  Henry,  even  so  spoiled  a  child  of 
fortune  as  herself  could  not  resent. 

Twenty  minutes  later.  Sir  Wilfrid  entered  the  first  big 
room  of  the  Foreign  Office  party.  He  looked  round  him 
3  17 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  a  revival  of  the  exhilaration  he  had  felt  on  Lady 
Henry's  staircase,  enjoying,  after  his  five  years  in  Te- 
heran, after  his  long  homeward  journey  by  desert  and 
sea,  even  the  common  trivialities  of  the  scene  —  the 
hghts,  the  gilding,  the  sparkle  of  jewels,  the  scarlet  of 
the  uniforms,  the  noise  and  movement  of  the  well-dressed 
crowd.  Then,  after  this  first  physical  thrill,  began  the 
second  stage  of  pleasure — the  recognitions  and  the  greet- 
ings, after  long  absence,  which  show  a  man  where  he 
stands  in  the  great  world,  which  sum  up  his  past  and  fore- 
cast his  future.  Sir  Wilfrid  had  no  reason  to  complain. 
Cabinet  ministers  and  great  ladies,  members  of  Parlia- 
ment and  the  permanent  ofificials  who  govern  but  do  not 
rule,  soldiers,  journalists,  barristers  —  were  all  glad,  it 
seemed,  to  grasp  him  by  the  hand.  He  had  returned 
with  a  record  of  difficult  service  brilliantly  done,  and  the 
English  world  rewarded  him  in  its  accustomed  wajT's. 

It  was  towards  one  o'clock  that  he  found  himself  in 
a  crowd  pressing  towards  the  staircase  in  the  wake  of 
some  departing  royalties.  A  tall  man  in  front  turned 
round  to  look  for  some  ladies  behind  him  from  whom  he 
had  been  separated  in  the  crush.  Sir  Wilfrid  recognized 
old  Lord  Lackington,  the  veteran  of  marvellous  youth, 
painter,  poet,  and  sailor,  who  as  a  gay  naval  lieutenant 
had  entertained  Byron  in  the  vEgean;  whose  fame  as  one 
of  the  raciest  of  naval  reformers  was  in  all  the  news- 
papers; whose  personahty  was  still,  at  seventy  -  five, 
charming  to  most  women  and  challenging  to  most  men. 

As  the  old  man  turned,  he  was  still  smiling,  as  though 
in  unison  with  something  which  had  just  been  said  to 
him;  and  his  black  eyes  under  his  singularly  white  hair 
searched  the  crowd  with  the  animation  of  a  lad  of  twenty. 

i8 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Through  the  energy  of  his  aspect  the  flame  of  hfe  still 
burned,  as  the  evening  sun  through  a  fine  sky.  The  face 
had  a  faulty  yet  most  arresting  brilliance.  The  mouth 
was  disagreeable,  the  chin  common.  But  the  general 
effect  was  still  magnificent. 

Sir  Wilfrid  started.  He  recalled  the  drawing-room  in 
Bruton  Street;  the  form  and  face  of  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton;  the  sentences  by  which  Lady  Henry  had  tried 
to  put  him  on  the  track.  His  mind  ran  over  past  years, 
and  pieced  together  the  recollections  of  a  long  -  past 
scandal.  "  Of  course!  Of  course!''  he  said  to  himself,  not 
without  excitement.  "She  is  not  like  her  mother,  but 
she  has  all  the  typical  points  of  her  mother's  race." 


II 


IT  was  a  cold,  clear  morning  in  February,  with  a  little 
pale  sunshine  playing  on  the  bare  trees  of  the  Park. 
Sir  Wilfrid,  walking  southward  from  the  Marble  Arch  to 
his  luncheon  with  Lady  Henry,  was  gladly  conscious  of 
the  warmth  of  his  fur-collared  coat,  though  none  the  less 
ready  to  envy  careless  youth  as  it  crossed  his  path  now 
and  then,  great-coatless  and  ruddy,  courting  the  keen 
air. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  make  his  exit  towards  Mount 
Street  he  became  aware  of  two  persons  walking  south- 
ward like  himself,  but  on  the  other  side  of  the  roadway. 
He  soon  identified  Captain  Warkworth  in  the  slim,  sol- 
dierly figure  of  the  man.  And  the  lady?  There  also, 
with  the  help  of  his  glasses,  he  was  soon  informed.  Her 
trim,  black  hat  and  her  black  cloth  costume  seemed  to 
him  to  have  a  becoming  and  fashionable  simplicity;  and 
she  moved  in  morning  dress,  with  the  same  ease  and 
freedom  that  had  distinguislied  her  in  Lady  Henry's 
drawing-room  the  night  before. 

He  asked  himself  whether  he  should  interrupt  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton  with  a  view  to  escorting  her  to  Bru- 
ton  Street.  He  understood,  indeed,  that  he  and  Lady 
Henry  were  to  be  alone  at  luncheon;  Mademoiselle  Julie 
had,  no  doubt,  her  own  quarters  and  attendants.  But 
she  seemed  to  be  on  her  way  home.     An  opportunity 

20 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

lor  some  perhaps  exploratory  conversation  with  her  be- 
fore he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Lady  Henry 
seemed  to  him  not  undesirable. 

But  he  qmckly  decided  to  walk  on.  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton  and  Captain  Warkworth  paused  in  their  walk, 
about  no  doubt  to  say  good-bye,  but,  very  clearly,  loath  to 
say  it.  They  were,  indeed,  in  earnest  conversation.  The 
Captain  spoke  with  eagerness;  Mademoiselle  Julie,  with 
downcast  eyes,  smiled  and  Hstened. 

"Is  the  fellow  making  love  to  her?"  thought  the  old 
man,  in  some  astonishment,  as  he  turned  away.  "  Hard- 
ly the  place  for  it  either,  one  would  suppose." 

He  vaguely  thought  that  he  would  both  sound  and 
warn  Lady  Hen^}^  Warn  her  of  what?  He  happened 
on  the  way  home  to  have  been  thrown  with  a  couple  of 
Indian  officers  whose  personal  opinion  of  Harry  Wark- 
worth was  not  a  very  high  one,  in  spite  of  the  brilliant 
distinction  which  the  young  man  had  earned  for  himself 
in  the  Afridi  campaign  just  closed.  But  how  was  he  to 
hand  that  sort  of  thing  on  to  Lady  Henry? — and  because 
he  happened  to  have  seen  her  lady  companion  and  Harry 
Warkworth  together?  No  doubt  Mademoiselle  Julie  was 
on  her  employer's  business. 

Yet  the  little  encounter  added  somehow  to  his  already 
lively  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  Lady  Henry's  com- 
panion. Thanks  to  a  reroarkable  physical  resemblance, 
he  was  practically  certain  that  he  had  guessed  the  secret 
of  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton's  parentage.  At  any  rate. 
on  the  supposition  that  he  had,  his  thoughts  began  to 
occupy  themselves  with  the  story  to  which  his  guess 
pointed. 

Some  thirty  years  before,  he  had  known,  both  in  Lon- 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

don  and  in  Italy,  a  certain  Colonel  Delaney  and  his  wife, 
once  Lady  Rose  Chantrey,  the  favorite  daughter  of  Lord 
Lackington.  They  were  not  a  happy  couple.  She  was 
a  woman  of  great  intelligence,  but  endowed  with  one 
of  those  natures — sensitive,  plastic,  eager  to  search  out 
and  to  challenge  life — which  bring  their  possessors  some 
great  joys,  hardly  to  be  balanced  against  a  final  sum 
of  pain.  Her  husband,  absorbed  in  his  military  life, 
silent,  narrowly  able,  and  governed  by  a  strict  Angli- 
canism that  seemed  to  carry  with  it  innumerable 
"shalts"  and  "shalt  nots,"  disagreeable  to  the  natural 
man  or  woman,  soon  found  her  a  tiring  and  trying  com- 
panion. She  asked  him  for  what  he  could  not  give;  she 
coquetted  with  questions  he  thought  it  impious  to  raise ; 
the  persons  she  made  friends  with  were  distasteful  to 
him;  and,  without  complaining,  he  soon  grew  to  think  it 
intolerable  that  a  woman  married  to  a  soldier  should 
care  so  little  for  his  professional  interests  and  ambitions. 
Though  when  she  pretended  to  care  for  them  she  an- 
noyed him,  if  possible,  still  more. 

As  for  Lady  Rose,  she  went  through  all  the  familiar 
emotions  of  the  femine  incomprise.  And  with  the  famil- 
iar result.  There  presently  appeared  in  the  house  a  man 
of  good  family,  thirty-five  or  so,  traveller,  painter,  and 
dreamer,  with  fine,  long-drawn  features  bronzed  by  the 
sun  of  the  East,  and  bringing  with  him  the  reputation 
of  having  plotted  and  fought  for  most  of  the  "lost 
causes"  of  our  generation,  including  several  which  had 
led  him  into  conflict  with  British  authorities  and  British 
officials.  To  Colonel  Delaney  he  was  an  "agitator,"  if 
not  a  rebel;  and  the  careless  pungency  of  his  talk  soon 
classed  him  as  an  atheist  besides.     In  the  case  of  Lady 

22 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Rose,  this  man's  free  and  generous  nature,  his  indepen- 
dence of  money  and  convention,  his  passion  for  the  things 
of  the  mind,  his  contempt  for  the  mode,  whether  in  dress 
or  pohtics,  his  Hght  evasions  of  the  red  tape  of  Hfe  as  of 
something  that  no  one  could  reasonably  expect  of  a  vaga- 
bond like  himself — these  things  presently  transformed  a 
woman  in  despair  to  a  woman  in  revolt.  She  fell  in  love 
with  an  intensity  befitting  her  true  temperament,  and 
with  a  stubbornness  that  bore  witness  to  the  dreary 
failure  of  her  marriage.  Marriott  Dalrymple  returned 
her  love,  and  nothing  in  his  view  of  life  predisposed  him 
to  put  what  probably  appeared  to  him  a  mere  legality 
before  the  happiness  of  two  people  meant  for  each  other. 
There  were  no  children  of  the  Delaney  marriage;  and  in 
his  belief  the  husband  had  enjoyed  too  long  a  companion- 
ship he  had  never  truly  deserved. 

So  Lady  Rose  faced  her  husband,  told  him  the  truth, 
and  left  him.  She  and  Dalrymple  went  to  live  in  Bel- 
gium, in  a  small  country-house  some  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  from  Brussels.  They  severed  themselves  from 
England;  they  asked  nothing  more  of  English  life.  Lady 
Rose  suffered  from  the  breach  with  her  father,  for  Lord 
Lackington  never  saw  her  again.  And  there  was  a 
young  sister  whom  she  had  brought  up,  whose  image 
could  often  rouse  in  her  a  sense  of  loss  that  showed  itself 
in  occasional  spells  of  silence  and  tears.  But  substan- 
tially she  never  repented  what  she  had  done,  although 
Colonel  Delaney  made  the  penalties  of  it  as  heavy  as  he 
could.  Like  Karennine  in  Tolstoy's  great  novel,  he  re- 
fused to  sue  for  a  divorce,  and  for  something  of  the  same 
reasons.  Divorce  was  in  itself  impious,  and  sin  should 
not  be  made  easy.     He  was  at  any  time  ready  to  take 

23 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

back  his  wife,  so  far  as  the  protection  of  his  name  and 
roof  were  concerned,  should  she  penitently  return  to  him. 

So  the  child  that  was  presently  born  to  Lady  R.ose 
could  not  be  legitimized. 

Sir  Wilfrid  stopped  short  at  the  Park  end  of  Bruton 
Street,  with  a  start  of  memory. 

"I  saw  it  once!     I  remember  now — perfectly." 

And  he  went  on  to  recall  a  bygone  moment  in  the 
Brussels  Gallery,  when,  as  he  was  standing  before  the 
great  Quintin  Matsys,  he  was  accosted  with  sudden  care- 
less familiarity  by  a  thin,  shabbily  dressed  man,  in  whose 
dark  distinction,  made  still  more  fantastic  and  conspic- 
uous by  the  fever  and  the  emaciation  of  consumption, 
lie  recognized  at  once  Marriott  Dalrymple. 

He  remembered  certain  fragments  of  their  talk  about 
the  pictures — the  easy  mastery,  now  brusque,  now  poetic, 
with  which  Dalrymple  had  shown  him  the  treasures  of 
the  gallery,  in  the  manner  of  one  whose  learning  was 
merely  the  food  of  fancy,  the  stuff  on  which  imagination 
and  reverie  grew  rich. 

Then,  suddenly,  his  own  question — "And  Lady  Rose?" 

And  Dalr3nnple's  quiet,  "Very  well.  She'd  see  you,  I 
think,  if  you  want  to  come.  She  has  scarcely  seen  an 
English  person  in  the  last  three  years." 

And  as  when  a  gleam  searches  out  some  blurred  cor- 
ner of  a  landscape,  there  returned  upon  him  his  visit  to 
the  pair  in  their  country  home.  He  recalled  the  small 
eighteenth-century  house,  the  "chateau"  of  the  village, 
built  on  the  French  model,  with  its  high  mansarde  roof; 
the  shabby  stateliness  of  its  architecture  matching  plain- 
tively with  the  field  of  beet-root  that  grew  up  to  its  very 
walls ;  around  it  the  flat,  rich  fields,  with  their  thin  Hnes  of 

24 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

poplars;  the  slow,  canalized  streams;  the  unlovely  farms 
and  cottages;  the  mire  of  the  lanes;  and,  shrouding  all. 
a  hot  autumn  mist  sweeping  slowly  through  the  damp 
meadows  and  blotting  all  cheerfulness  from  the  sun. 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  pale  landscape,  so  full  of  ragged 
edges  to  an  English  eye,  the  English  couple,  with  their 
books,  their  child,  and  a  pair  of  Flemish  servants. 

It  had  been  evident  to  him  at  once  that  their  circum- 
stances were  those  of  poverty.  Lady  Rose's  small  fort- 
une, indeed,  had  been  already  mostly  spent  on  "causes" 
of  many  kinds,  in  many  countries.  She  and  Dalrymple 
were  almost  vegetarians,  and  wine  never  entered  the 
house  save  for  the  servants,  who  seemed  to  regard  their 
employers  with  a  real  but  half-contemptuous  affection. 
He  remembered  the  scanty,  ill-cooked  luncheon;  the  dif- 
ficulty in  providing  a  few  extra  knives  and  forks;  the 
wrangling  with  the  old  bonne-honsekeeper,  which  was 
necessary  before  serviettes  could  be  produced. 

And  afterwards  the  library,  with  its  deal  shelves  from 
floor  to  ceiling  put  up  by  Dalrymple  himself,  its  bare, 
polished  floor,  Dalrymple's  table  and  chair  on  one  side 
of  the  open  hearth.  Lady  Rose's  on  the  other;  on  his  ta- 
ble the  sheets  of  verse  translation  from  ^schylus  and 
Euripides,  which  represented  his  favorite  hobby;  on  hers 
the  socialist  and  economical  books  they  both  studied  and 
the  EngHsh  or  French  poets  they  both  loved.  The  walls, 
hung  with  the  faded  damask  of  a  past  generation,  were 
decorated  with  a  strange  crop  of  pictures  pinned  care- 
lessly into  the  silk — photographs  or  newspaper  portraits 
of  modern  men  and  women  representing  all  possible  re- 
volt against  authority,  political,  religious,  even  scientific, 
the  Everlasting  No  of  an  untiring  and  ubiquitous  dissent. 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Finally,  in  the  centre  of  the  polished  floor,  the  strange 
child,  whom  Lady  Rose  had  gone  to  fetch  after  lunch, 
with  its  high  crest  of  black  hair,  its  large,  jealous  eyes,  its 
elfin  hands,  and  the  sudden  smile  with  which,  after  half 
an  hour  of  silence  and  apparent  scorn,  it  had  reward- 
ed Sir  Wilfrid's  advances.  He  saw  himself  sitting  be- 
witched beside  it. 

Poor  Lady  Rose!  He  remembered  her  as  he  and  she 
parted  at  the  gate  of  the  neglected  garden,  the  anguish 
in  her  eyes  as  they  turned  to  look  after  the  bent  and 
shrunken  figure  of  Dalrymple  carrying  the  child  back  to 
the  house. 

"If  you  meet  any  of  his  old  friends,  don't — don't  say 
anything!  We've  just  saved  enough  money  to  go  to 
Sicily  for  the  winter — that  '11  set  him  right." 

And  then,  barely  a  year  later,  the  line  in  a  London 
newspaper  which  had  reached  him  at  Madrid,  chronicling 
the  death  of  Marriott  Dalrymple,  as  of  a  man  once  on 
the  threshold  of  fa'me,  but  long  since  exiled  from  the 
thoughts  of  practical  men.  Lady  Rose,  too,  was  dead — 
many  years  since;  so  much  he  knew.  But  how,  and 
where?     And  the  child? 

She  was  now  "  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  "  ? — the  centre 
and  apparently  the  chief  attraction  of  Lady  Henry's  once 
famous  salon? 

"And,  by  Jove!  several  of  her  kinsfolk  there,  rela- 
tions oi  the  mother  or  the  father,  if  what  I  suppose  is 
true!"  thought  Sir  Wilfrid,  remembering  one  or  two  of 
the  guests.     "Were  they — was  she — aware  of  it?" 

The  old  man  strode  on,  full  of  a  growing  eagerness, 
and  was  soon  on  Lady  Henry's  doorstep. 

26 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Her  ladyship  is  in  the  dining-room,"  said  the  butler, 
and  Sir  Wilfrid  was  ushered  there  straight. 

"  Good  -  morning,  Wilfrid,"  said  the  old  lady,  raising 
herself  on  her  silver-headed  sticks  as  he  entered.  "I 
prefer  to  come  down-stairs  by  myself.  The  more  infirm 
I  am,  the  less  I  like  it  —  and  to  be  helped  enrages  me. 
Sit  down.  Lunch  is  ready,  and  I  give,  you  leave  to  eat 
some." 

"And  you?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  as  they  seated  them- 
selves almost  side  by  side  at  the  large,  round  table  in 
the  large,  dingy  room. 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head. 
.    "All  the  world  eats  too  much.     I  was  brought  up  with 
people  who  lunched  on  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  sherry." 

"Lord  Russell?  —  Lord  Palmerston?"  suggested  Sir 
Wilfrid,  attacking  his  own  lunch  meanwhile  with  un- 
abashed vigor. 

"That  sort.     I  wish  we  had  their  like  now." 

"Their  successors  don't  please  you?" 

Lady  Henry  shook  her  head. 

"The  Tories  have  gone  to  the  deuce,  and  there  are  no 
longer  enough  Whigs  even  to  do  that.  I  wouldn't  read 
the  newspapers  at  all  if  I  could  help  it.     But  I  do." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid;  "you  let  Mon- 
tresor  know  it  last  night." 

"Montresor!"  said  Lady  Henry,  with  a  contemptuous 
movement.  "What  a  poseur !  He  lets  the  army  go  to 
ruin,  I  understand,  while  he  joins  Dante  societies." 

Sir  Wilfrid  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  have  som^e  lunch,"  he 
said,  gently  pushing  the  admirable  salmi  which  the  but- 
ler had  left  in  front  of  him  towards  his  old  friend. 

27 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  temper  will  be  better  presently,  when  those 
men  are  gone" — she  nodded  towards  the  butler  and  foot- 
man in  the  distance — "and  I  can  have  my  say." 

Sir  Wilfrid  hurried  his  meal  as  much  as  Lady  Henry — 
who,  as  it  turned  out,  was  not  at  all  minded  to  starve 
him — would  allow.  She  meanwhile  talked  politics  and 
gossip  to  him,  with  her  old,  caustic  force,  nibbling  a  dry 
biscuit  at  intervals  and  sipping  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  was 
a  wilful,  characteristic  figure  as  she  sat  there,  beneath 
her  own  portrait  as  a  bride,  which  hung  on  the  wall  be- 
hind her.  The  portrait  represented  a  very  young  wom- 
an, with  plentiful  brown  hair  gathered  into  a  knot  on 
the  top  of  her  head,  a  high  waist,  a  blue  waist-ribbon, 
and  inflated  sleeves.  Handsome,  imperious,  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  well  down,  the  look  straight  and  daring — 
the  Lady  Henry  of  the  picture,  a  bride  of  nineteen,  was 
already  formidable.  And  the  old  woman  sitting  beneath 
it,  with  the  strong,  white  hair,  which  the  ample  cap  found 
some  difficulty  even  now  in  taming  and  confining,  the 
droop  of  the  mouth  accentuated,  the  nose  more  master- 
ful, the  double  chin  grown  evident,  the  light  of  the  eyes 
gone  out,  breathed  pride  and  will  from  every  feature 
of  her  still  handsome  face,  pride  of  race  and  pride  of 
intellect,  combined  with  a  hundred  other  subtler  and 
smaller  prides  that  only  an  intimate  knowledge  of  her 
could  detect.  The  brow  and  eyes,  so  beautiful  in  the 
picture,  were,  however,  still  agreeable  in  the  living  wom- 
an; if  generosity  lingered  anywhere,  it  was  in  them. 

The  door  was  hardly  closed  upon  the  servants  when 
she  bent  forward. 

"Well,  have  you  guessed?" 

28 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  as  he  stirred 
the  sugar  in  his  coffee. 

"I  think  so,"  he  said.  "She  is  Lady  Rose  Delaney's 
daughter." 

Lady  Henry  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  I  hardly  expected  you  to  guess !     What  helped  you  ?" 

"First  your  own  hints.  Then  the  strange  feeling  I 
had  that  I  had  seen  the  face,  or  some  face  just  like  it, 
before.  And,  lastly,  at  the  Foreign  Office  I  caught  sight, 
for  a  moment,  of  Lord  Lackington.     That  finished  it." 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Henry,  with  a  nod.  "Yes,  that  like- 
ness is  extraordinary.  Isn't  it  amazing  that  that  fool- 
ish old  man  has  never  perceived  it?" 

"He  knows  nothing?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  Nobody  does.  However,  that  '11  do 
presently.  But  Lord  Lackington  comes  here,  mumbles 
about  his  music  and  his  water-colors,  and  his  flirtations 
— seventy-four,  if  you  please,  last  birthday! — talks  about 
himself  endlessly  to  Julie  or  to  me — whoever  comes 
handy — and  never  has  an  inkling,  an  idea." 

"And  she?" 

"Oh,  she  knows.  I  should  rather  think  she  does." 
And  Lady  Henry  pushed  away  her  coffee-cup  with  the 
ill-suppressed  vehemence  which  any  mention  of  her  com- 
panion seemed  to  produce  in  her.  "Well,  now,  I  sup- 
pose you'd  Hke  to  hear  the  story." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  It  '11  surprise  you  to  hear  that  I  not 
only  knew  this  lady's  mother  and  father,  but  that  I've 
seen  her,  herself,  before." 

"You?"     Lady  Henry  looked  incredulous. 

"I  never  told  you  of  my  visit  to  that  menage,  four- 
and-twenty  years  ago?" 

2Q 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 


Lady  Henry  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  temper  will  be  better  presently,  when  those 
men  are  gone" — she  nodded  towards  the  butler  and  foot- 
man in  the  distance — "and  I  can  have  my  say." 

Sir  Wilfrid  hurried  his  meal  as  much  as  Lady  Henry — 
who,  as  it  turned  out,  was  not  at  all  minded  to  starve 
him — would  allow.  She  meanwhile  talked  politics  and 
gossip  to  him,  with  her  old,  caustic  force,  nibbling  a  dry 
biscuit  at  intervals  and  sipping  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  was 
a  wilful,  characteristic  figure  as  she  sat  there,  beneath 
her  own  portrait  as  a  bride,  which  hung  on  the  wall  be- 
hind her.  The  portrait  represented  a  very  young  wom- 
an, with  plentiful  brown  hair  gathered  into  a  knot  on 
the  top  of  her  head,  a  high  waist,  a  blue  waist-ribbon, 
and  inflated  sleeves.  Handsome,  imperious,  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  well  down,  the  look  straight  and  daring — 
the  Lady  Henry  of  the  picture,  a  bride  of  nineteen,  was 
already  formidable.  And  the  old  woman  sitting  beneath 
it,  with  the  strong,  white  hair,  which  the  ample  cap  found 
some  difficulty  even  now  in  taming  and  confining,  the 
droop  of  the  mouth  accentuated,  the  nose  more  master- 
ful, the  double  chin  grown  evident,  the  light  of  the  eyes 
gone  out,  breathed  pride  and  will  from  every  feature 
of  her  still  handsome  face,  pride  of  race  and  pride  of 
intellect,  combined  with  a  hundred  other  subtler  and 
smaller  prides  that  only  an  intimate  knowledge  of  her 
could  detect.  The  brow  and  eyes,  so  beautiful  in  the 
picture,  were,  however,  still  agreeable  in  the  living  wom- 
an; if  generosity  lingered  anywhere,  it  was  in  them. 

The  door  was  hardly  closed  upon  the  servants  when 
she  bent  forward. 

"Well,  have  you  guessed?" 

38 


"Itfci 

ilaugliler' 

LadvH 

ihrl 

"First ) 

had  tk  '■ 

before.  :. 

foramoa 

ness  ]i  (1 

isii  ol( 
"Heb 
"Oh,  D( 

presen'jy. 

about  his : 


nandy-aii 

"Andsb 

"Oh,  jii 

.IndUdv 

il-suppress 


"Waiti 

odykaet 
seenhtr.ik 

"Ibevc 
and-tvesj, 


"lady  henry  listened  eagerly' 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"All  very  well,"  she  said.  "What  did  your  tale  mat- 
ter to  you?     As  for  mine — " 

The  substance  of  hers  was  as  follows,  put  into  chrono- 
logical order: 

Lady  Rose  had  lived  some  ten  years  after  Dalrymple's 
death.  That  time  she  passed  in  great  poverty  in  some 
chaiubres  garnics  at  Bruges,  with  her  little  girl  and  an  old 
Madame  Le  Breton,  the  maid,  housekeeper,  and  general 
factotum  who  had  served  them  in  the  country.  This 
woman,  though  of  a  peevish,  grumbling  temper,  was 
faithful,  affectionate,  and  not  without  education.  She 
was  certainly  attached  to  little  Julie,  whose  nurse  she 
had  been  during  a  short  period  of  her  infancy.  It  was 
natural  that  Lady  Rose  should  leave  the  child  to  her 
care.  Indeed,  she  had  no  choice.  An  old  Ursuline  nun, 
and  a  kind  priest  who  at  the  nun's  instigation  occasional- 
ly came  to  see  her,  in  the  hopes  of  converting  her,  were 
her  only  other  friends  in  the  world.  She  wrote,  however, 
to  her  father,  shortly  before  her  death,  bidding  him 
good-bye,  and  asking  him  to  do  something  for  the  child. 
"She  is  wonderfully  like  you,"  so  ran  part  of  the  letter. 
"  You  won't  ever  acknowledge  her,  I  know.  That  is  your 
strange  code.  But  at  least  give  her  what  will  keep  her 
from  want,  till  she  can  earn  her  living.  Her  old  nurse 
will  take  care  of  her.  I  have  taught  her,  so  far.  She  is 
already  very  clever.  When  I  am  gone  she  will  attend 
one  of  the  convent  schools  here.  And  I  have  found  an 
honest  lawyer  who  will  receive  and  pay  out  money." 

To  this  letter  Lord  Lackington  replied,  promising  to 
come  over  and  see  his  daughter.  But  an  attack  of  gout 
delayed  him,  and,  before  he  was  out  of  his  room.  Lady 
Rose  was  dead.     Then  he  no  longer  talked  of  coming 

31 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

over,  and  his  solicitors  arranged  matters.  An  allowance 
of  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  was  made  to  Madame  Le 
Breton,  through  the  "honest  lawyer"  whom  Lady  Rose 
had  found,  for  the  benefit  of  "Julie  Dalrymple,"  the 
capital  value  to  be  handed  over  to  that  young  lady  her- 
self on  the  attainment  of  her  eighteenth  birthday — al- 
ways provided  that  neither  she  nor  anybody  on  her  be- 
half made  any  further  claim  on  the  Lackington  family, 
that  her  relationship  to  them  was  dropped,  and  her 
mother's  history  buried  in  oblivion. 

Accordingly  the  girl  grew  to  maturity  in  Bruges.  By 
the  lawyer's  advice,  after  her  mother's  death,  she  took 
the  name  of  her  old  gouvernante ,  and  was  known  thence- 
forward as  Julie  Le  Breton.  The  Ursuline  nuns,  to 
whose  school  she  was  sent,  took  the  precaution,  after  her 
mother's  death,  of  having  her  baptized  straightway  into 
the  Catholic  faith,  and  she  made  her  premiere  conimti- 
nion  in  their  church.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years  she 
became  a  remarkable  girl,  the  source  of  many  anxieties 
to  the  nuns.  For  she  was  not  only  too  clever  for  their 
teaching,  and  an  inborn  sceptic,  but  wherever  she  ap- 
peared she  produced  parties  and  the  passions  of  parties. 
And  though,  as  she  grew  older,  she  showed  much  adroit- 
ness in  managing  those  who  were  hostile  to  her,  she  was 
never  without  enemies,  and  intrigues  followed  her. 

"I  might  have  been  warned  in  time,"  said  Lady 
Henry,  in  whose  wrinkled  cheeks  a  sharp  and  feverish 
color  had  sprung  up  as  her  story  approached  the  mo- 
ment of  her  own  personal  acquaintance  with  Madem- 
oiselle Le  Breton.  "For  one  or  two  of  the  nuns  when 
I  saw  them  in  Bruges,  before  the  bargain  was  finally 
struck,  were  candid  enough.     However,  now  I  come  to 

32 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  moment  when  I  first  set  eyes  on  her.  You  know 
my  little  place  in  Surrey?  About  a  mile  from  me  is  a 
manor-house  belonging  to  an  old  Catholic  family,  terribly 
devout  and  as  poor  as  church-mice.  They  sent  their 
daughters  to  school  in  Bruges.  One  summer  holiday 
these  girls  brought  home  with  them  Julie  Dalrymple  as 
their  quasi-holiday  governess.  It  was  three  years  ago. 
I  had  just  seen  Liebreich.  He  told  me  that  I  should 
soon  be  blind,  and,  naturally,  it  was  a  blow  to  me." 

Sir  Wilfrid  made  a  murmur  of  sympathy. 

"Oh,  don't  pity  me!  I  don't  pity  other  people.  This 
odious  body  of  ours  has  got  to  wear  out  sometime — it's 
in  the  bargain.  Still,  just  then  I  was  low.  There  are 
two  things  I  care  about — one  is  talk,  with  the  people  that 
amuse  me,  and  the  other  is  the  reading  of  French  books. 
I  didn't  see  how  I  was  going  to  keep  my  circle  here  to- 
gether, and  my  own  mind  in  decent  repair,  unless  I  could 
find  somebody  to  be  eyes  for  me,  and  to  read  to  me.  And 
as  I'm  a  bundle  of  nerves,  and  I  never  was  agreeable  to 
illiterate  people,  nor  they  to  me,  I  was  rather  put  to  it. 
Well,  one  day  these  girls  and  their  mother  came  over  to 
tea,  and,  as  you  guess,  of  course,  they  brought  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton  with  them.  I  had  asked  them  to 
come,  but  when  they  arrived  I  was  bored  and  cross, 
and  like  a  sick  dog  in  a  hole.  And  then,  as  you  have 
seen  her,  I  suppose  you  can  guess  what  happened." 

"You  discovered  an  exceptional  person?" 

Lady  Henry  laughed. 

"  I  was  limed,  there  and  then,  old  bird  as  I  am.  I  was 
first  struck  with  the  girl's  appearance — une  belle  laide 
— with  every  movement  just  as  it  ought  to  be ;  infinitely 
more  attractive  to  me  than  any  pink-and-white  beauty. 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

It  turned  out  that  she  had  just  been  for  a  month  in  Paris 
with  another  school-fellow.  Something  she  said  about  a 
new  play — suddenly — made  me  look  at  her.  '  Venez  vous 
asseoir  ici,  mademoiselle,  s'il  vous  plait — pr^s  de  moi,' 
I  said  to  her — I  can  hear  my  own  voice  now,  poor  fool, 
and  see  her  flush  up.  Ah!"  Lady  Henry's  interjection 
dropped  to  a  note  of  rage  that  almost  upset  Sir  Wilfrid's 
gravity;  but  he  restrained  himself,  and  she  resumed: 
"We  talked  for  two  hours;  it  seemed  to  me  ten  m.inutes. 
I  sent  the  others  out  to  the  gardens.  She  staj'^ed  with 
me.  The  new  French  books,  the  theatre,  poems,  plays, 
novels,  memoirs,  even  politics,  she  could  talk  of  them  all; 
or,  rather — for,  mark  you,  that's  her  gift — she  made  me 
talk.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  not  been  so  brilliant  for 
months.  I  was  as  good,  in  fact,  as  I  had  ever  been.  The 
difficulty  in  England  is  to  find  any  one  to  keep  up  the 
ball.  She  does  it  to  perfection.  She  never  throws  to 
win — never! — but  so  as  to  leave  you  all  the  chances. 
You  make  a  brilliant  stroke;  she  applauds,  and  in  a 
moment  she  has  arranged  you  another.  Oh,  it  is  the 
most  extraordinary  gift  of  conversation — and  she  never 
says  a  thing  that  you  want  to  remember." 

There  was  a  silence.  Lady  Henry's  old  fingers  drum- 
med restlessly  on  the  table.  Her  memory  seemed  to  be 
wandering  angrily  among  her  first  experiences  of  the 
lady  they  were  discussing. 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  at  last,  "so  you  engaged  her 
as  lectrice,  and  thought  yourself  very  lucky?" 

"  Oh,  don't  suppose  that  I  was  quite  an  idiot.  I  made 
some  inquiries — I  bored  myself  to  death  with  civilities 
to  the  stupid  family  she  was  staying  with,  and  presently 
I  made  her  stay  with  me.     And  of  course  I  soon  saw 

34 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

there  was  a  history.  She  possessed  jewels,  laces,  little 
personal  belongings  of  various  kinds,  that  wanted  ex- 
plaining. So  I  laid  traps  for  her;  I  let  her  also  perceive 
whither  my  own  plans  were  drifting.  She  did  not  wait  to 
let  me  force  her  hand.  She  made  up  her  mind.  One 
day  I  found,  left  carelessly  on  the  drawing-room  table,  a 
volume  of  Saint-Simon,  beautifully  bound  in  old  French 
morocco,  with  something  thrust  between  the  leaves.  I 
opened  it.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  written  the  name  Mar- 
riott Dalrymple,  and  the  leaves  opened,  a  little  far- 
ther, on  a  miniature  of  Lady  Rose  Delaney.     So — " 

"Apparently  it  was  her  traps  that  worked,"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  smiHng.  Lady  Henry  returned  the  smile 
unwillingly,  as  one  loath  to  acknowledge  her  own 
folly. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  was  trapped.  We  both  desired 
to  come  to  close  quarters.  Anyway,  she  soon  showed 
me  books,  letters — from  Lady  Rose,  from  Dalrymple, 
Lord  Lackington — the  evidence  was  complete.  .  .  . 

"'Very  well,'  I  said;  'it  isn't  your  fault.  All  the 
better  if  you  are  well  born — I  am  not  a  person  of  preju- 
dices. But  understand,  if  you  come  to  me,  there  must 
be  no  question  of  worrying  your  relations.  There  are 
scores  of  them  in  London.  I  know  them  all,  or  nearly 
all,  and  of  course  you'll  come  across  them.  But  unless 
you  can  hold  your  tongue,  don't  come  to  me.  Julie 
Dalrymple  has  disappeared,  and  I'll  be  no  party  to  her 
resurrection.  If  Julie  Le  Breton  becomes  an  inmate  of 
my  house,  there  shall  be  no  raking  up  of  scandals  much 
better  left  in  their  graves.  If  you  haven't  got  a  prop- 
er parentage,  consistently  thought  out,  we  must  invent 
one — ' " 

35 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  hope  I  may  some  day  be  favored  with  it,"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid. 

Lady  Henry  laughed  uncomfortably. 

"Oh,  I've  had  to  tell  lies,"  she  said,  "plenty  of 
them." 

"What!     It  was  yon  that  told  the  lies?" 

Lady  Henry's  look  flashed. 

"The  open  and  honest  ones,"  she  said,  defiantly. 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  regretfully,  "some  sort  were 
indispensable.     So  she  came.     How  long  ago?" 

"Three  years.  For  the  first  half  of  that  time  I  did 
nothing  but  plume  myself  on  my  good  fortune.  I  said 
to  myself  that  if  I  had  searched  Europe  through  I  could 
not  have  fared  better.  My  household,  my  friends,  my 
daily  ways,  she  fitted  into  them  all  to  perfection.  I  told 
people  that  I  had  discovered  her  through  a  Belgian  ac- 
quaintance. Ever}^  one  was  amazed  at  her  manners,  her 
intelligence.  She  was  perfectly  modest,  perfectly  well 
behaved.  The  old  Duke — he  died  six  months  after  she 
came  to  me — was  charmed  with  her.  Montresor,  Mere- 
dith, Lord  Robert,  all  my  habitues  congratulated  me. 
'Such  cultivation,  such  charm,  such  savoir-faire!  Where 
on  earth  did  you  pick  up  such  a  treasure?  What  are 
her  antecedents?'  etc.,  etc.     So  then,  of  course — " 

"  I  hope  no  more  than  were  absolutely  necessary!"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  hastily. 

"  I  had  to  do  it  well,"  said  Lady  Henry,  with  decision; 
"  I  can't  say  I  didn't.  That  state  of  things  lasted,  more 
or  less,  about  a  year  and  a  half.  And  by  now,  where  do 
you  think  it  has  all  worked  out?" 

"  You  gave  me  a  few  hints  last  night,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
hesitating. 

36 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  table. 
Her  hands  trembled  on  her  stick. 

"Hints!"  she  said,  scornfully.  "I'm  long  past  hints. 
I  told  you  last  night — and  I  repeat — that  woman  has 
stripped  me  of  all  my  friends!  She  has  intrigued  with 
them  all  in  turn  against  me.  She  has  done  the  same 
even  with  my  servants.  I  can  trust  none  of  them  where 
she  is  concerned.  I  am  alone  in  my  own  house.  My 
blindness  makes  me  her  tool,  her  plaything.  As  for  my 
salon,  as  you  call  it,  it  has  become  hers.  I  am  a  mere 
courtesy-figurehead — her  chaperon,  in  fact.  I  provide 
the  house,  the  footmen,  the  champagne;  the  guests  are 
hers.  And  she  has  done  this  by  constant  intrigue  and 
deception — by  flattery — by  lying!" 

The  old  face  had  become  purple.  Lady  Henry  breathed 
hard. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  quickly,  laying  a 
calming  hand  on  her  arm,  "don't  let  this  trouble  you  so. 
Dismiss  her." 

"And  accept  solitary  confinement  for  the  rest  of  my 
days?  I  haven't  the  courage — yet,"  said  Lady  Henr^^ 
bitterly.  "You  don't  know  how  I  have  been  isolated 
and  betrayed!  And  I  haven't  told  you  the  worst  of  all. 
Listen !  Do  you  know  whom  she  has  got  into  her 
toils?" 

She  paused,  drawing  herself  rigidly  erect.  Sir  Wilfrid, 
looking  up  sharply,  remembered  the  little  scene  in  the 
Park,  and  waited. 

"  Did  you  have  any  opportunity  last  night,"  said  Lady 
Henry,  slowly,  "of  observing  her  and  Jacob  Delafield?" 

She  spoke  with  passionate  intensity,  her  frowning 
brows  meeting  above  a  pair  of  eyes  that  struggled  to  see 

37 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

and  could  not.  But  the  effect  she  Hstened  for  was  not 
produced.     Sir  Wilfrid  drew  back  uncertainly. 

"Jacob  Delafield.''"  he  said.  "Jacob  Delafield?  Are 
you  sure?" 

"Sure?"  cried  Lady  Henry,  angrily.  Then,  disdain- 
ing to  support  her  statement,  she  went  on:  "He  hesi- 
tates. But  she'll  soon  make  an  end  of  that.  And  do  you 
realize  what  that  means — what  Jacob's  possibilities  are? 
Kindly  recollect  that  Chudleigh  has  one  boy — one  sickly, 
tuberculous  boy — who  might  die  any  day.  And  Chud- 
leigh himself  is  a  poor  life.  Jacob  has  more  than  a  good 
chance — ninety  chances  out  of  a  hundred  " — she  ground 
the  words  out  with  emphasis — "of  inheriting  the  duke- 
dom." 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  throwing  away  his 
cigarette. 

"There!"  said  Lady  Henry,  in  sombre  triumph. 
"  Now  you  can  understand  what  I  have  brought  on  poor 
Henry's  family." 

A  low  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Lady  Henry,  impatiently. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold,  carrying  a  small  gray  terrier 
under  each  arm. 

"I  thought  I  had  better  tell  you,"  she  said,  humbly, 
"that  I  am  taking  the  dogs  out.  Shall  I  get  some  fresh 
wool  for  your  knitting?" 


Ill 


IT  was  nearly  four  o'clock.  Sir  Wilfrid  had  just  closed 
Lady  Henry's  door  behind  him,  and  was  again  walk- 
ing along  Bruton  Street. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  little  scene  of  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton's  appearance  on  the  threshold  of  Lady  Henry's 
dining-room ;  of  the  insolent  sharpness  with  which  Lady 
Henry  had  given  her  order  upon  order — as  to  the  dogs, 
the  books  for  the  circulating  library,  a  message  for  her 
dressmaker,  certain  directions  for  the  tradesmen,  etc., 
etc. — as  though  for  the  mere  purpose  of  putting  the  wom- 
an who  had  dared  to  be  her  rival  in  her  right  place 
before  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury.  And  at  the  end,  as  she  was 
departing.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  trusting  no  doubt 
to  Lady  Henry's  blindness,  had  turned  towards  himself, 
raising  her  downcast  eyes  upon  him  suddenly,  with  a 
proud,  passionate  look.  Her  lips  had  moved;  Sir  Wil- 
frid had  half  risen  from  his  chair.  Then,  quickly,  the 
door  had  closed  upon  her. 

Sir  Wilfrid  could  not  think  of  it  without  a  touch  of 
excitement. 

"Was  she  reminding  me  of  Gherardtsloo?"  he  said  to 
himself.  "Upon  my  word,  I  must  find  some  means  of 
conversation  with  her,  in  spite  of  Lady  Henry." 

He  walked  towards  Bond  Street,  pondering  the  situa- 
tion of  the  two  women  —  the  impotent  jealousy  and 

39 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

rancor  with  which  Lady  Henry  was  devoured,  the 
domestic  slavery  contrasted  with  the  social  power  of 
Mademoiselle  Le  Breton.  Through  the  obscurity  and 
difficulty  of  circumstance,  how  marked  was  the  con- 
science of  race  in  her,  and,  as  he  also  thought,  of  high 
intelligence!  The  old  man  was  deeply  interested.  He 
felt  a  certain  indulgent  pity  for  his  lifelong  friend  Lady 
Henry;  but  he  could  not  get  Mademoiselle  Julie  out  of 
his  head. 

"Why  on  earth  does  she  stay  where  she  is?" 

He  had  asked  the  same  question  of  Lady  Henry,  who 
had  contemptuously  replied: 

"  Because  she  likes  the  flesh-pots,  and  won't  give  them 
jp.  No  doubt  she  doesn't  find  my  manners  agreeable; 
but  she  knows  very  well  that  she  wouldn't  get  the 
chances  she  gets  in  my  house  anywhere  else.  I  give  her 
a  foothold.  She'll  not  risk  it  for  a  few  sour  speeches 
on  my  part.  I  may  say  what  I  like  to  her — and  I  intend 
to  say  what  I  like!  Besides,  you  watch  her,  and  see 
whether  she's  made  for  poverty.  She  takes  to  luxury 
as  a  fish  to  water.  What  would  she  be  if  she  left  me? 
A  little  visiting  teacher,  perhaps,  in  a  Bloomsbury  lodg- 
ing.    That's  not  her  line  at  all." 

"But  somebody  else  might  employ  her  as  you  do?" 
Sir  Wilfrid  had  suggested. 

"You  forget  I  should  be  asked  for  a  character,"  said 
Lady  Henry.  "Oh,  I  admio  there  are  possibilities — on 
her  side.  That  silly  goose,  Evelyn  Crowborough,  would 
have  taken  her  in,  but  I  had  a  few  words  with  Crow- 
borough,  and  he  put  his  foot  down.  He  told  his  wife  he 
didn't  want  an  intriguing  foreigner  to  live  with  them. 
No;  for  the  present  we  are  chained  to  each  other.     I 

40 


Ladi)    Rose's    Daughter 

can't  get  rid  of  her,  and  she  doesn't  want  to  get  rid  of 
me.  Of  course,  things  might  become  intolerable  for 
either  of  us.  But  at  present  self-interest  on  both  sides 
keeps  us  going.  Oh,  don't  tell  me  the  thing  is  odious!  I 
know  it.  Every  day  she  stays  in  the  house  I  become 
a  more  abominable  old  woman." 

A  more  exacting  one,  certainly.  Sir  Wilfrid  thought 
with  pity  and  amusement  of  the  commissions  with  which 
Mademoiselle  Julie  had  been  loaded.  "She  earns  her 
money,  anyway,"  he  thought.  "Those  things  will  take 
her  a  hard  afternoon's  work.  But,  bless  my  soul!" — he 
paused  in  his  walk — "what  about  that  engagement  to 
Duchess  Evelyn  that  I  heard  her  make?  Not  a  word, 
by -the -way,  to  Lady  Henry  about  it!  Oh,  this  is 
amusing!" 

He  went  meditatively  on  his  way,  and  presently  turn- 
ed into  his  club  to  write  some  letters.  But  at  five 
o'clock  he  emerged,  and  told  a  hansom  to  drive  him  to 
Grosvenor  Square.  He  alighted  at  the  great  red-brick 
mansion  of  the  Crowboroughs,  and  asked  for  the  Duch- 
ess. The  magnificent  person  presiding  over  the  hall,  an 
old  family  retainer,  remembered  him,  and  made  no  dif- 
ficulty about  admitting  him. 

"Anybody  with  her  grace?"  he  inquired,  as  the  man 
handed  him  over  to  the  footman  who  was  to  usher  him 
up-stairs. 

"Only  Miss  Le  Breton  and  Mr.  Delafield,  Sir  Wilfrid. 
Her  grace  told  me  to  say  'not  at  home'  this  afternoon, 
but  I  am  sure,  sir,  she  will  see  you." 
Sir  Wilfrid  smiled. 

As  he  entered  the  outer  drawing-room,  the  Duchess 
and  the  group  surrounding  her  did  not  immediately  per- 

41 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ceive  the  footman  nor  himself,  and  he  had  a  few  mo- 
ments in  which  to  take  in  a  charming  scene. 

A  baby  girl  in  a  white  satin  gown  down  to  her  heels, 
and  a  white  satin  cap,  lace-edged  and  tied  under  her  chin, 
was  holding  out  her  tiny  skirt  v/ith  one  hand  and  dancing 
before  the  Duchess  and  Miss  Le  Breton,  who  was  at  the 
piano.  The  child's  other  hand  held  up  a  morsel  of  biscuit 
wherewith  she  directed  the  movements  of  her  partner, 
a  small  black  spitz,  of  a  slim  and  silky  elegance,  who, 
straining  on  his  hind  legs,  his  eager  attention  fixed  upon 
the  biscuit,  followed  every  movement  of  his  small  mis- 
tress; while  she,  her  large  blue  eyes  now  solemn,  now 
triumphant,  her  fair  hair  escaping  from  her  cap  in 
fluttering  curls,  her  dainty  feet  pointed,  her  dimpled 
arm  upraised,  repeated  in  living  grace  the  picture  of  her 
great-great-grandmother  which  hung  on  the  wall  in  front 
of  her,  a  masterpiece  from  Reynolds's  happiest  hours. 

Behind  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  stood  Jacob  Delafield; 
while  the  Duchess,  in  a  low  chair  beside  them,  beat  time 
gayly  to  the  gavotte  that  Mademoiselle  Julie  was  playing 
and  laughed  encouragement  and  applause  to  the  child  in 
front  of  her.  She  herself,  with  her  cloud  of  fair  hair,  the 
delicate  pink  and  white  of  her  skin,  the  laughing  lips  and 
small  white  hands  that  rose  and  fell  with  the  baby  steps, 
seemed  little  more  than  a  child.  Her  pale  blue  dress,  for 
which  she  had  just  exchanged  her  winter  walking-cos- 
tume, fell  round  her  in  sweeping  folds  of  lace  and  silk — a 
French  fairy  dressed  by  Worth,  she  was  possessed  by  a 
wild  gayety,  and  her  silvery  laugh  held  the  room. 

Beside  her,  Julie  Le  Breton,  very  thin,  very  tall,  very 
dark,  was  laughing  too.  The  eyes  which  Sir  Wilfrid 
had  lately  seen  so  full  of  pride  were  now  alive  with 

42 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

pleasure.  Jacob  Delafield,  also,  from  behind,  grinned 
applause  or  shouted  to  the  babe,  "Brava,  Tottie;  well 
done!"  Three  people,  a  baby,  and  a  dog  more  in- 
timately pleased  with  one  another's  society  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  discover. 

"Sir  Wilfrid!" 

The  Duchess  sprang  up  astonished,  and  in  a  moment, 
to  Sir  Wilfrid's  chagrin,  the  little  scene  fell  to  pieces.  The 
child  dropped  on  the  floor,  defending  herself  and  the 
biscuit  as  best  she  could  against  the  wild  snatches  of  the 
dog.  Delafield  composed  his  face  in  a  moment  to  its 
usual  taciturnity.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  rose  from 
the  piano. 

"  No,  no!"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  stopping  short  and  holding 
up  a  deprecating  hand.     "Too  bad!     Go  on." 

"Oh,  we  were  only  fooling  with  baby!"  said  the  Duch- 
ess. "It  is  high  time  she  went  to  her  nurse.  Sit  here, 
Sir  Wilfrid.  Julie,  will  you  take  the  babe,  or  shall  I  ring 
for  Mrs.  Robson?" 

"I'll  take  her,"  said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton. 

She  knelt  down  by  the  child,  who  rose  with  alacrity. 
Catching  her  skirts  round  her,  with  one  eye  half  laugh- 
ing, half  timorous,  turned  over  her  shoulder  towards  the 
dog,  the  baby  made  a  wild  spring  into  Mademoiselle 
Julie's  arms,  tucking  up  her  feet  instantly,  with  a  shriek 
of  delight,  out  of  the  dog's  way.  Then  she  nestled  her 
fair  head  down  upon  her  bearer's  shoulder,  and,  throb- 
bing with  joy  and  mischief,  was  carried  away. 

Sir  Wilfrid,  hat  in  hand,  stood  for  a  moment  watching 
the  pair.  A  bygone  marriage  uniting  the  Lackington 
family  with  that  of  the  Duchess  had  just  occurred  to  him 
in  some  bewilderment.     He  sat  down  beside  his  hostess, 

43 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

while  she  made  him  some  tea.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
door  of  the  farther  drawing-room  closed  behind  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton,  than  with  a  dart  of  all  her  lively 
person  she  pounced  upon  him. 

"Well,  so  Aunt  Flora  has  been  complaining  to  you.?" 

Sir  Wilfrid's  cup  remained  suspended  in  his  hand.  He 
glanced  first  at  the  speaker  and  then  at  Jacob  Delafield. 

"Oh,  Jacob  knows  all  about  it!"  said  the  Duchess, 
eagerly.  "This  is  Julie's  headquarters;  we  are  on  her 
staff.     You  come  from  the  enemy!" 

Sir  Wilfrid  took  out  his  white  silk  handkerchief  and 
waved  it. 

"  Here  is  my  flag  of  truce,"  he  said.     "  Treat  me  well." 

"  We  are  only  too  anxious  to  parley  with  you,"  said  the 
Duchess,  laughing.     "Aren't  we,  Jacob?" 

Then  she  drew  closer. 

"What  has  Aunt  Flora  been  saying  to  you?" 

Sir  Wilfrid  paused.  As  he  sat  there,  apparently  study- 
ing his  boots,  his  blond  hair,  now  nearly  gray,  care- 
fully parted  in  the  middle  above  his  benevolent  brow, 
he  might  have  been  reckoned  a  tame  and  manageable 
person.     Jacob  Delafield,  however,  knew  him  of  old. 

"I  don't  think  that's  fair,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  at  last, 
looking  up.  "  I'm  the  new-comer;  I  ought  to  be  allowed 
the  questions." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Duchess,  her  chin  on  her  hand. 
"Jacob  and  I  will  answer  all  we  know." 

Delafield  nodded.  Sir  Wilfrid,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other,  quickly  reminded  himself  that  they  had  been 
playmates  from  the  cradle — or  might  have  been. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  am  lost 
in  admiration  at  the  rapidity  with  which  Mademoiselle 

44 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Le  Breton  does  business.  An  hour  and  a  half  ago" — 
he  looked  at  his  watch — "I  stood  by  while  Lady  Henry 
enumerated  commissions  it  would  have  taken  any  or- 
dinary man-mortal  half  a  day  to  execute." 

The  Duchess  clapped  her  hands. 

"My  maid  is  now  executing  them,"  she  said,  with 
glee.  "In  an  hour  she  will  be  back.  Julie  will  go  home 
with  everything  done,  and  I  shall  have  had  nearl57  two 
hours  of  her  delightful  society.  What  harm  is  there 
in  that?" 

"Where  are  the  dogs?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  looking 
round. 

"Aunt  Flora's  dogs?  In  the  housekeeper's  room,  eat- 
ing sweet  biscuit.  They  adore  the  groom  of  the  cham- 
bers." 

"  Is  Lady  Henry  aware  of  this — this  division  of  labor?" 
said  Sir  Wilfrid,  smiling. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  Duchess,  flushing.  "She 
makes  Julie's  life  such  a  burden  to  her  that  something 
has  to  be  done.  Now  what  has  Aunt  Flora  been  telling 
you?  We  were  certain  she  would  take  you  into  council 
— she  has  dropped  various  hints  of  it.  I  suppose  she  has 
been  telling  you  that  Julie  has  been  intriguing  against 
her — taking  liberties,  separating  her  from  her  friends, 
and  so  on?" 

Sir  Wilfrid  smilingly  presented  his  cup  for  some  more 
tea. 

"  I  beg  to  point  out,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  only  been 
allov/ed  two  questions  so  far.  But  if  things  are  to  be  at 
all  fair  and  equal,  I  am  owed  at  least  six." 

The  Duchess  drew  back,  checked,  and  rather  annoyed. 
Jacob  Delafield,  on  the  other  hand,  bent  forward. 

45 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"We  are  anxious,  Sir  Wilfrid,  to  tell  3^ou  all  we  know," 
he  replied,  with  quiet  emphasis. 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  at  him.  The  flame  in  the  young 
man's  eyes  burned  clear  and  steady — but  flame  it  was. 
Sir  Wilfrid  remembered  him  as  a  lazy,  rather  somnolent 
youth;  the  man's  advance  in  expression,  in  significant 
power,  of  itself,  told  much. 

"  In  the  first  place,  can  you  give  me  the  history  of  this 
lady's  antecedents?" 

He  glanced  from  one  to  the  other. 

The  Duchess  and  Jacob  Delafield  exchanged  glances. 
Then  the  Duchess  spoke — uncertainly. 

"Yes,  we  know.  She  has  confided  in  us.  There  is 
nothing  whatever  to  her  discredit." 

Sir  Wilfrid's  expression  changed. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Duchess,  bending  forward.  "You 
know,  too?" 

"I  knew  her  father  and  mother,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
simply. 

The  Duchess  gave  a  little  cry  of  relief.  Jacob  Dela- 
field rose,  took  a  turn  across  the  room,  and  came  back  to 
Sir  Wilfrid. 

"Now  we  can  really  speak  frankly,"  he  said.  "The 
situation  has  grown  very  difficult,  and  we  did  not  know 
— Evelyn  and  I — whether  we  had  a  right  to  explain  it. 
But  now  that  Lady  Henry — " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  "  that's  all  right.  The  fact 
of  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton's  parentage — " 

"Is  really  what  makes  Lady  Henry  so  jealous!"  cried 
the  Duchess,  indignantly.  "Oh,  she's  a  tyrant,  is  Aunt 
Flora!  It  is  because  Julie  is  of  her  own  world — of  our 
world,  by^blood,  whatever  the  law  may  say — that  she 

46 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

can't  help  making  a  rival  out  of  her,  and  tormenting  her 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  I  tell  you,  Sir  Wilfrid,  what 
that  poor  girl  has  gone  through  no  one  can  imagine  but 
we  who  have  watched  it.  Lady  Henry  owes  her  every- 
thing this  last  three  years.  Where  would  she  have  been 
without  Julie?  She  talks  of  Julie's  separating  her  from 
her  friends,  cutting  her  out,  imposing  upon  her,  and  non- 
sense of  that  kind!  How  would  she  have  kept  up  that 
salon  alone,  I  should  like  to  know — a  blind  old  woman 
who  can't  write  a  note  for  herself  or  recognize  a  face? 
First  of  all  she  throws  everything  upon  Julie,  is  proud 
of  her  cleverness,  puts  her  forward  in  every  way,  tells 
most  unnecessary  falsehoods  about  her — Julie  has  felt 
that  very  much — and  then  when  Julie  has  a  great  suc- 
cess, when  people  begin  to  come  to  Bruton  Street,  for  her 
sake  as  well  as  Lady  Henry's,  then  Lady  Henry  turns 
against  her,  complains  of  her  to  everybody,  talks  about 
treachery  and  disloyalty  and  Heaven  knows  what,  and 
begins  to  treat  her  like  the  dirt  under  her  feet!  How 
can  Julie  help  being  clever  and  agreeable — she  is  clever 
and  agreeable!  As  Mr.  Montresor  said  to  me  yesterday, 
'As  soon  as  that  woman  comes  into  a  room,  my  spirits 
go  up!'  And  why?  Because  she  never  thinks  of  her- 
self, she  always  makes  other  people  show  at  their  best. 
And  then  Lady  Henry  behaves  like  this!"  The  Duchess 
threw  out  her  hands  in  scornful  reprobation.  "And  the 
question  is,  of  course,  Can  it  go  on?" 

"I  don't  gather,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  hesitating,  "that 
Lady  Henry  wants  immediately  to  put  an  end  to  it." 

Delafield  gave  an  angry  laugh. 

"The  point  is  whether  Mademoiselle  Julie  and  Mad- 
emoiselle Julie's  friends  can  put  up  with  it  much  longer." 

47 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"You  see,"  said  the  Duchess,  eagerly,  "Julie  is  such 
a  loyal,  affectionate  creature.  She  knows  Lady  Henry 
was  kind  to  her,  to  begin  with,  that  she  gave  her  great 
chances,  and  that  she's  getting  old  and  infirm.  Julie's 
awfully  sorry  for  her.  She  doesn't  want  to  leave  her  all 
alone — to  the  mercy  of  her  servants — " 

"I  understand  the  servants,  too,  are  devoted  to  Mad- 
emoiselle Julie?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid. 

"Yes,  that's  another  grievance,"  said  Delafield,  con- 
temptuously. "Why  shouldn't  they  be?  When  the 
butler  had  a  child  very  ill,  it  was  Mademoiselle  Julie 
who  went  to  see  it  in  the  mews,  who  took  it  flowers  and 
grapes — " 

"Lady  Henry's  grapes?"  threw  in  Sir  Wilfrid. 

"What  does  it  matter!"  said  Delafield,  impatiently. 
"Lady  Henry  has  more  of  everything  than  she  knows 
what  to  do  with.  But  it  wasn't  grapes  only!  It  was 
time  and  thought  and  consideration.  Then  when  the 
younger  footmian  wanted  to  emigrate  to  the  States,  it 
was  Mademoiselle  Julie  who  found  a  situation  for  him, 
who  got  Mr.  Montresor  to  write  to  some  American 
friends,  and  finally  sent  the  lad  off,  devoted  to  her,  of 
course,  for  life.  I  should  like  to  know  when  Lady 
Henry  would  have  done  that  kind  of  thing!  Naturally 
the  servants  like  her — she  deserves  it." 

"I  see — I  see,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  nodding  gently,  his 
eyes  on  the  carpet.     "A  very  competent  young  lady." 

Delafield  looked  at  the  older  man,  half  in  annoyance, 
half  in  perplexity. 

"Is  tiiere  anything  to  complain  of  in  that?"  he  said, 
rather  shortly. 

"Oh,   nothing,    nothing!"    said   Sir   Wilfrid,    hastily. 

48 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"And  this  word  intrigue  that  Lady  Henry  uses?  Has 
mademoiselle  always  steered  a  straightforward  course 
with  her  employer?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  Duchess,  shrugging  her  shoulders, 
"how  can  you  always  be  perfectly  straightforward  with 
such  a  tyrannical  old  person!  She  has  to  be  managed. 
Lately,  in  order  to  be  sure  of  every  minute  of  Julie's 
time,  she  has  taken  to  heaping  work  upon  her  to  such  a 
ridiculous  extent  that  unless  I  come  to  the  rescue  the 
poor  thing  gets  no  rest  and  no  amusement.  And  last 
summer  there  was  an  explosion,  because  Julie,  who  was 
supposed  to  be  in  Paris  for  her  holiday  with  a  school- 
friend,  really  spent  a  week  of  it  with  the  Buncombes, 
Lady  Henry's  married  niece,  who  has  a  place  in  Kent. 
The  Buncombes  knew  her  at  Lady  Henry's  parties,  of 
course.  Then  they  met  her  in  the  Louvre,  took  her 
about  a  little,  were  delighted  with  her,  and  begged  her 
to  come  and  stay  with  them — they  have  a  place  near 
Canterbury — on  the  way  home.  They  and  Julie  agreed 
that  it  would  be  best  to  say  nothing  to  Lady  Henry, 
about  it — she  is  too  absurdly  jealous — but  then  it  leaked 
out,  unluckily,  and  Lady  Henry  was  furious." 

"I  must  say,"  said  Belafield,  hurriedly,  "I  always 
thought  frankness  would  have  been  best  there." 

"Well,  perhaps,"  said  the  Duchess,  unwillingly,  with 
another  shrug.  "But  now  what  is  to  be  done?  Lady 
Henry  really  must  behave  better,  or  Julie  can't  and 
sha'n't  stay  with  her.  Julie  has  a  great  following — hasn't 
she,  Jacob?     They  won't  see  her  harassed  to  death." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Belafield.  "At  the  same  time 
we  all  see" — he  turned  to  Sir  Wilfrid — "what  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  present  combination  are.  Where  would 
♦  49 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry  find  another  lady  of  Mademoiselle  Le  Bre- 
ton's sort  to  help  her  with  her  house  and  her  salon? 
For  the  last  two  years  the  Wednesday  evenings  have 
been  the  most  brilliant  and  successful  things  of  their 
kind  in  London.  And,  of  course,  for  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  the  protection  of  Lady 
Henry's  name — " 

"A  great  thing?"  cried  Sir  Wilfrid.  "Everything,  my 
dear  Jacob!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Delafield,  slowly.  "It  may  be 
bought  too  dear." 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  at  the  speaker  with  curiosity.  It 
had  been  at  all  times  possible  to  rouse  Jacob  Delafield — 
as  child,  as  school-boy,  as  undergraduate — from  an  ha- 
bitual carelessness  and  idleness  by  an  act  or  a  tale  of 
injustice  or  oppression.  Had  the  Duchess  pressed  him 
into  her  service,  and  was  he  merely  taking  sides  for  the 
weaker  out  of  a  natural  bent  towards  that  way  of  look- 
ing at  things?     Or — 

"Well,  certainly  we  must  do  our  best  to  patch  it  up," 
said  Sir  Wilfrid,  after  a  pause.  "Perhaps  Mademoi- 
selle Le  Breton  will  allow  me  a  word  with  her  by-and-by. 
I  think  I  have  still  some  influence  with  Lady  Henry. 
But,  dear  goddaughter" — he  bent  forward  and  laid  his 
hand  on  that  of  the  Duchess — "don't  let  the  maid  do 
the  commissions." 

"  But  I  must!"  cried  the  Duchess.  "Just  think,  there 
is  my  big  bazaar  on  the  i6th.  You  don't  know  how 
clever  Julie  is  at  such  things.  I  want  to  make  her  recite 
— her  French  is  too  beautiful!  And  then  she  has  such 
inventiveness,  such  a  head !  Everything  goes  if  she  takes 
it  in  hand.     But  if  I  say  anything  to  Aunt  Flora,  she'll 

50 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

put  a  spoke  in  all  our  wheels.  She'll  hate  the  thought 
of  anything  in  which  Julie  is  successful  and  conspicuous. 
Of  course  she  will!" 

"All  the  same,  Evelyn,"  said  Delafield,  uncomfortable 
apparently  for  the  second  time,  "  I  really  think  it  would 
be  best  to  let  Lady  Henry  know." 

"Well,  then,  we  may  as  well  give  it  up,"  said  the  Duch- 
ess, pettishly,  turning  aside. 

Delafield,  who  was  still  pacing  the  carpet,  suddenly 
raised  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  warning.  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton  was  crossing  the  outer  drawing-room. 

"Julie,  come  here!"  cried  the  Duchess,  springing  up 
and  running  towards  her.  "Jacob  is  making  himself  so 
disagreeable.  He  thinks  we  ought  to  tell  Lady  Henry 
about  the  i6th." 

The  speaker  put  her  arm  through  Julie  Le  Breton's, 
looking  up  at  her  with  a  frowning  brow.  The  contrast 
between  her  restless  prettiness,  the  profusion  of  her  dress 
and  hair,  and  Julie's  dark,  lissome  strength,  gowned  and 
gloved  in  neat,  close  black,  was  marked  enough. 

As  the  Duchess  spoke,  Julie  looked  smiling  at  Jacob 
Delafield. 

"  I  am  in  your  hands,"  she  said,  gently.  "  Of  course  I 
don't  want  to  keep  anything  from  Lady  Henry.  Please 
decide  for  me." 

Sir  Wilfrid's  mouth  showed  a  satirical  line.  He  turn- 
ed aside  and  began  to  play  with  a  copy  of  the  Spectator. 

"Julie,"  said  the  Duchess,  hesitating,  "I  hope  you 
won't  mind,  but  we  have  been  discussing  things  a  little 
with  Sir  Wilfrid.  I  felt  sure  Aunt  Flora  had  been  talk- 
ing to  him." 

"Of  course,"  said  Julie,  "I  knew  she  would."     She 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

looked  towards  Sir  Wilfrid,  slightly  drawing  herself  up. 
Her  manner  was  quiet,  but  all  her  movements  were  some- 
how charged  with  a  peculiar  and  interesting  significance. 
The  force  of  the  character  made  itself  felt  through  all 
disguises. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Sir  Wilfrid  began  to  murmur 
apologetic  things. 

"It  was  natural,  mademoiselle,  that  Lady  Henry 
should  confide  in  me.  She  has  perhaps  told  you  that 
for  many  years  I  have  been  one  of  the  trustees  of  her 
property.  That  has  led  to  her  consulting  me  on  a  good 
many  matters.  And  evidently,  from  what  she  says  and 
what  the  Duchess  says,  nothing  could  be  of  more  im- 
portance to  her  happiness,  now,  in  her  helpless  state, 
than  her  relations  to  you." 

He  spoke  with  a  serious  kindness  in  which  the  tinge  of 
mocking  habitual  to  his  sleek  and  well-groomed  visage 
was  wholly  lost.     Julie  Le  Breton  met  him  with  dignity. 

"Yes,  they  are  important.  But,  I  fear  they  cannot 
go  on  as  they  are." 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Sir  Wilfrid  approached  her: 

"I  hear  you  are  returning  to  Bruton  Street  imme- 
diatel}^     Might  I  be  your  escort?" 

"Certainly." 

The  Duchess,  a  little  sobered  by  the  turn  events  had 
taken  and  the  darkened  prospects  of  her  bazaar,  protest- 
ed in  vain  against  this  sudden  departure.  Julie  resumed 
her  furs,  which,  as  Sir  Wilfrid,  who  was  curious  in  such 
things,  happened  to  notice,  were  of  great  beauty,  and 
made  her  farewells.  Did  her  hand  linger  in  Jacob  Dela- 
field's?  Did  the  look  with  which  that  yoimg  man  re- 
ceived it  express  more  than  the  steadfast  support  which 

S2 


^9liiirp  Chi'Vi 


"'indeed    I    will!'     cried    sir    WILFRID,     AND    THEY 
WALKED    on" 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

justice  offers  to  the  oppressed?  Sir  Wilfrid  could  not 
be  sure. 

As  they  stepped  out  into  the  frosty,  lamp-lit  dark  of 
Grosvenor  Square,  Julie  Le  Breton  turned  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"You  knew  my  mother  and  father,"  she  said,  abrupt- 
ly.    "I  remember  your  coming." 

What  was  in  her  voice,  her  rich,  beautiful  voice?  Sir 
Wilfrid  only  knew  that  while  perfectly  steady,  it  seemed 
to  bring  emotion  near,  to  make  all  the  aspects  of  things 
dramatic. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  replied,  in  some  confusion.  "I  knew 
her  well,  from  the  time  when  she  was  a  girl  in  the  school- 
room.    Poor  Lady  Rose!" 

The  figure  beside  him  stood  still. 

"Then  if  you  were  my  mother's  friend,"  she  said, 
huskily,  "you  will  hear  patiently  what  I  have  to  say, 
even  though  you  are  Lady  Henry's  trustee." 

"  Indeed  I  will!"  cried  Sir  Wilfrid,  and  they  walked  on. 


IV 


BUT,  first  of  all,"  said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  look- 
ing in  some  annoyance  at  the  brace  of  terriers 
circling  and  barking  round  them,  "we  must  take  the 
dogs  home,  otherwise  no  talk  will  be  possible." 

"You  have  no  more  business  to  do?" 

His  companion  smiled. 

"Everything  Lady  Henry  wants  is  here,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  bag  upon  her  arm  which  had  been  hand- 
ed to  her,  as  Sir  Wilfrid  remembered,  after  some  whis- 
pered conversation,  in  the  hall  of  Crowborough  House 
by  an  elegantly  dressed  woman,  who  was  no  doubt  the 
Duchess's  maid. 

"Allow  me  to  carry  it  for  you." 

"Many  thanks,"  said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  firmly 
retaining  it,  "but  those  are  not  the  things  I  mind." 

They  walked  on  quickly  to  Bruton  Street.  The  dogs 
made  conversation  impossible.  If  they  were  on  the 
chain  it  was  one  long  battle  between  them  and  their 
leader.  If  they  were  let  loose,  it  seemed  to  Sir  Wilfrid 
that  they  ranged  every  area  on  the  march,  and  attacked 
all  elderly  gentlemen  and  most  errand-boys. 

"  Do  you  always  take  them  out?"  he  asked,  when  both 
he  and  his  companion  were  crimson  and  out  of  breath. 

"Always." 

"Do  you  like  dogs?" 

54 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  used  to.     Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  again." 

"As  for  me,  I  wish  they  had  but  one  neck!"  said  Sir 
Wilfrid,  who  had  but  just  succeeded  in  dragging  Max, 
the  bigger  of  the  two,  out  of  the  interior  of  a  pastry- 
cook's hand-cart  which  had  been  rashly  left  with  doors 
open  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  street,  while  its  responsi- 
ble guardian  was  gossiping  in  an  adjacent  kitchen.  Mad- 
emoiselle Julie  meanwhile  was  wrestling  with  Nero,  the 
younger,  who  had  dived  to  the  very  heart  of  a  peculiarly 
unsavory  dust -box,  standing  near  the  entrance  of  a 
mews. 

"So  you  commonly  go  through  the  streets  of  London 
in  this  whirlwind?"  asked  Sir  Wilfrid,  again,  incredulous, 
when  at  last  they  had  landed  their  charges  safe  at  the 
Bruton  Street  door. 

"  Morning  and  evening,"  said  Mademoiselle  Julie,  smil- 
ing. Then  she  addressed  the  butler:  "Tell  Lady  Henry, 
please,  that  I  shall  be  at  home  in  half  an  hour." 

As  they  turned  westward,  the  winter  streets  were  gay 
with  lights  and  full  of  people.  Sir  Wilfrid  was  presently 
conscious  that  among  all  the  handsome  and  well-dressed 
women  who  brushed  past  them.  Mademoiselle  Le  Bre- 
ton more  than  held  her  own.  She  reminded  him  now  not 
so  much  of  her  mother  as  of  Marriott  Dalrymple.  Sir 
Wilfrid  had  first  seen  this  woman's  father  at  Damascus, 
when  Dalrymple,  at  twenty-six,  was  beginning  the  series 
of  Eastern  journeys  which  had  made  him  famous.  He 
remembered  the  brillance  of  the  youth ;  the  power,  phys- 
ical and  mental,  which  radiated  from  him,  making  all 
things  easy;  the  scorn  of  mediocrity,  the  incapacity  for 
subordination. 

"I  should  like  you  to  understand,"  said  the  lady  be- 

55 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

side  him,  "that  I  came  to  Lady  Henry  prepared  to  do 
my  very  best." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  hastily  recalling 
his  thoughts  from  Damascus.  "  And  you  must  have  had 
a  very  difficult  task." 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  knew,  of  course,  it  must  be  difficult.  And  as  to  the 
drudgery  of  it — the  dogs,  and  that  kind  of  thing — nothing 
of  that  sort  matters  to  me  in  the  least.  But  I  cannot  be 
humiliated  before  those  who  have  become  my  friends, 
entirely  because  Lady  Henry  wished  it  to  be  so." 

"Lady  Henry  at  first  showed  you  every  confidence?" 

"After  the  first  month  or  two  she  put  everything  into 
my  hands — her  household,  her  receptions,  her  letters,  3^ou 
may  almost  say  her  whole  social  existence.  She  trusted 
me  with  all  her  secrets."  ("No,  no,  my  dear  lady," 
thought  Sir  Wilfrid.)  "  She  let  me  help  her  with  all  her 
affairs.  And,  honestly,  I  did  all  I  could  to  make  her  life 
easy." 

"That  I  understand  from  herself." 

"Then  why,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  turning 
round  to  him  with  sudden  passion — "  why  couldn't  Lady 
Henry  leave  things  alone?  Are  devotion,  and — and  the 
kind  of  qualities  she  wanted,  so  common?  I  said  to 
myself  that,  blind  and  helpless  as  she  was,  she  should 
lose  nothing.  Not  only  should  her  household  be  well 
kept,  her  affairs  well  managed,  but  her  salon  should  be 
as  attractive,  her  Wednesday  evenings  as  brilliant,  as 
ever.  The  world  was  deserting  her;  I  helped  her  to  bring 
it  back.  She  cannot  live  without  social  success;  yet 
now  she  hates  me  for  what  I  have  done.  Is  it  sane — 
is  it  reasonable?" 

S6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"She  feels,  I  suppose,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  gravely,  "that 
the  success  is  no  longer  hers." 

"So  she  says.  But  will  you  please  examine  that  re- 
mark? When  her  guests  assemble,  can  I  go  to  bed  and 
leave  her  to  grapple  with  them?  I  have  proposed  it 
often,  but  of  course  it  is  impossible.  And  if  I  am  to  be 
there  I  must  behave,  I  suppose,  like  a  lady,  not  like  the 
housemaid.  Really,  Lady  Henry  asks  too  much.  In  my 
mother's  little  flat  in  Bruges,  with  the  two  or  three 
friends  who  frequented  it,  I  was  brought  up  in  as  good 
society  and  as  good  talk  as  Lady  Henry  has  ever  known." 

They  were  passing  an  electric  lamp,  and  Sir  Wilfrid, 
looking  up,  was  half  thrilled,  half  repelled  by  the  flashing 
energy  of  the  face  beside  him.  Was  ever  such  language 
on  the  lips  of  a  paid  companion  before?  His  sympathy 
for  Lady  Henry  revived. 

"  Can  you  really  give  me  no  clew  to  the — to  the  sources 
of  Lady  Henry's  dissatisfaction?"  he  said,  at  last,  rather 
coldly. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  hesitated. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  myself  out  a  saint,"  she  said, 
at  last,  in  another  voice  and  with  a  humility  which  was, 
in  truth,  hardly  less  proud  than  her  self-assertion.  "I — I 
was  brought  up  in  poverty,  and  my  mother  died  when 
I  was  fifteen.  I  had  to  defend  myself  as  the  poor  defend 
themselves — by  silence.  I  learned  not  to  talk  about  my 
own  affairs.  I  couldn't  afford  to  be  frank,  like  a  rich 
English  girl.  I  dare  say,  sometimes  I  have  concealed 
things  which  had  been  better  made  plain.  They  were 
never  of  any  real  importance,  and  if  Lady  Henry  had 
shown  any  consideration — " 

Her  voice  failed  her  a  little,  evidently  to  her  annoy- 

57 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ance.  They  walked  on  without  speaking  for  a  few 
paces.  "Never  of  any  real  importance?"  Sir  Wilfrid 
wondered. 

Their  minds  apparently  continued  the  conversation 
though  their  lips  were  silent,  for  presently  Julie  Le 
Breton  said,  abruptly: 

"Of  course  I  am  speaking  of  matters  where  Lady 
Henry  might  have  some  claim  to  information.  With 
regard  to  many  of  my  thoughts  and  feelings.  Lady  Henry 
has  no  right  whatever  to  my  confidence." 

"She  gives  us  fair  warning,"  thought  Sir  Wilfrid. 

Aloud  he  said: 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  I  under- 
stand, but  of  actions." 

"  Like  the  visit  to  the  Buncombes'  ?"  said  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton,  impatiently.  "Oh,  I  quite  admit  it — that's 
only  one  of  several  instances  Lady  Henry  might  have 
brought  forward.  You  see,  she  led  me  to  make  these 
friendships;  and  now,  because  they  annoy  her,  I  am  to 
break  them.  But  she  forgets.  Friends  are  too  —  too 
new  in  my  life,  too  precious — " 

Again  the  voice  wavered.  How  it  thrilled  and  pene- 
trated! Sir  Wilfrid  found  himself  listening  for  every 
word. 

"No,"  she  resumed.  "If  it  is  a  question  of  renounc- 
ing the  friends  I  have  made  in  her  house,  or  going — it 
will  be  going.     That  may  as  well  be  quite  clear." 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  up. 

"Let  me  ask  you  one  question,  mademoiselle." 

"Certainly.     Whatever  you  like." 

"Have  you  ever  had,  have  you  now,  any  affection  for 
Lady  Henry?" 

S8 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Affection?  I  could  have  had  plenty.  Lady  Henry 
is  most  interesting  to  watch.  It  is  magnificent,  the 
struggles  she  makes  with  her  infirmities." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  agreeable  than  the 
modulation  of  these  words,  the  passage  of  the  tone 
from  a  first  note  of  surprise  to  its  grave  and  womanly 
close.  Again,  the  same  suggestions  of  veiled  and  vibrat- 
ing feeling.  Sir  Wilfrid's  nascent  dislike  softened  a 
Httle. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  with  gentleness,  "one  must  make 
allowance  for  old  age  and  weakness,  mustn't  one?" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  you  can't  say  anything  to  me  that 
I  am  not  perpetually  saying  to  myself,"  was  her  some- 
what impetuous  reply.  "  Only  there  is  a  point  when  ill- 
temper  becomes  not  only  tormenting  to  me  but  degrad- 
ing to  herself.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only  knew!" — the  speaker 
drew  an  indignant  breath.  "I  can  hardly  bring  myself 
to  speak  of  such  miseres.  But  everything  excites  her, 
everything  makes  her  jealous.  It  is  a  grievance  that  I 
should  have  a  new  dress,  that  Mr.  Montresor  should  send 
me  an  order  for  the  House  of  Commons,  that  Evelyn 
Crowborough  should  give  me  a  Christmas  present.  Last 
Christmas,  Evelyn  gave  me  these  furs — she  is  the  only 
creature  in  London  from  whom  I  would  accept  a  far- 
thing or  the  value  of  a  farthing." 

She  paused,  then  rapidly  threw  him  a  question: 

"Why,  do  you  suppose,  did  I  take  it  from  her?" 

"She  is  your  kinswoman,"  said  Wilfrid,  quietly. 

"Ah,  you  knew  that!  Well,  then,  mayn't  Evelyn  be 
kind  to  me,  though  I  am  what  I  am?  I  reminded  Lady 
Henry,  but  she  only  thought  me  a  mean  parasite,  spong- 
ing on  a  duchess  for  presents  above  my  station.     She 

59 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

said  things  hardly  to  be  forgiven.  I  was  silent.  But  I 
have  never  ceased  to  wear  the  furs." 

With  what  imperious  will  did  the  thin  shoulders 
straighten  themselves  under  the  folds  of  chinchilla!  The 
cloak  became  symbolic,  a  flag  not  to  be  struck. 

"  I  never  answer  back,  please  understand — never,"  she 
went  on,  hurriedly.  "  You  saw  to-day  how  Lady  Henry 
gave  me  her  orders.  There  is  not  a  servant  in  the  house 
with  whom  she  would  dare  such  a  manner.  Did  I  resent 
it?" 

"  You  behaved  with  great  forbearance.  I  watched  you 
with  admiration." 

"Ah,  forbearance!  I  fear  you  don't  understand  one 
of  the  strangest  elements  in  the  whole  case.  I  am  afraid 
of  Lady  Henry,  mortally  afraid!  When  she  speaks  to 
me  I  feel  like  a  child  who  puts  up  its  hands  to  ward 
off  a  blow.  My  instinct  is  not  merely  to  submit,  but  to 
grovel.  When  you  have  had  the  youth  that  I  had,  when 
you  have  existed,  learned,  amused  yourself  on  sufferance, 
when  you  have  had  somehow  to  maintain  yourself  among 
girls  who  had  family,  friends,  money,  name,  while  you — " 

Her  voice  stopped,  resolutely  silenced  before  it  broke. 
Sir  Wilfrid  uncomfortably  felt  that  he  had  no  sympathy 
to  produce  worthy  of  the  claim  that  her  whole  personality 
seemed  to  make  upon  it.  But  she  recovered  herself  im- 
mediately. 

"Now  I  think  I  had  better  give  you  an  outline  of  the 
last  six  months,"  she  said,  turning  to  him.  "Of  course 
it  is  my  side  of  the  matter.  But  you  have  heard  Lady 
Henry's." 

And  with  great  composure  she  laid  before  him  an 
outline  of  the  chief  quarrels  and  grievances  which  had 

60 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

embittered  the  life  of  the  Bruton  Street  house  during  the 
period  she  had  named.  It  was  a  wretched  story,  and  she 
clearly  told  it  with  repugnance  and  disgust.  There  was 
in  her  tone  a  note  of  ofifend'ed  personal  delicacy,  as  of  one 
bemired  against  her  will. 

Evidently,  Lady  Henry  was  hardly  to  be  defended. 
The  thing  had  been  "odious,"  indeed.  Two  women  of 
great  ability  and  different  ages,  shut  up  together  and 
jarring  at  every  point,  the  elder  furiously  jealous  and 
exasperated  by  what  seemed  to  her  the  affront  offered 
to  her  high  rank  and  her  past  ascendency  by  the  social 
success  of  her  dependant,  the  other  defending  herself, 
first  by  the  arts  of  flattery  and  submission,  and  then, 
when  these  proved  hopeless,  by  a  social  skill  that  at 
least  wore  many  of  the  aspects  of  intrigue — these  were 
the  essential  elements  of  the  situation;  and,  as  her  nar- 
rative proceeded.  Sir  Wilfrid  admitted  to  himself  that  it 
was  hard  to  see  any  way  out  of  it.  As  to  his  own  sym- 
pathies, he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  them. 

"No.  I  have  been  only  too  yielding,"  said  Madem- 
oiselle Le  Breton,  sorely,  when  her  tale  was  done.  "I 
am  ashamed  when  I  look  back  on  what  I  have  borne. 
But  now  it  has  gone  too  far,  and  something  must  be 
done.     If  I  go,  frankly,  Lady  Henry  will  suffer." 

Sir  Wilfrid  locked  at  his  companion. 

"Lady  Henry  is  well  aware  of  it." 

"Yes,"  was  the  calm  reply,  "she  knows  it,  but  she 
does  not  realize  it.  You  see,  if  it  comes  to  a  rupture  she 
will  allow  no  half-measures.  Those  who  stick  to  me  will 
have  to  quarrel  with  her.  And  there  will  be  a  great 
many  who  will  stick  to  me." 

Sir  Wilfrid's  little  smile  was  not  friendly. 

6i 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"It  is  indeed  evident,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
thought  it  all  out." 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  did  not  reply.  They  walked 
on  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  till  she  said,  with  a  sudden- 
ness and  in  a  low  tone  that  startled  her  companion: 

"  If  Lady  Henry  could  ever  have  felt  that  she  humbled 
me,  that  I  acknowledged  myself  at  her  mercy!  But  she 
never  could.  She  knows  that  I  feel  myself  as  well  born 
as  she,  that  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  parents,  that  my 
principles  give  me  a  free  mind  about  such  things." 

"Your  principles?"  murmured  Sir  Wilfrid. 

"You  were  right,"  she  turned  upon  him  with  a  per- 
fectly quiet  but  most  concentrated  passion.  "I  have 
had  to  think  things  out.  I  know,  of  course,  that  the 
world  goes  with  Lady  Henry.  Therefore  I  must  be 
nameless  and  kinless  and  hold  my  tongue.  If  the  world 
knew,  it  would  expect  me  to  hang  my  head.  I  dont! 
I  am  as  proud  of  my  mother  as  of  my  father.  I  adore 
both  their  memories.  Conventionalities  of  that  kind 
mean  nothing  to  me." 

"  My  dear  lady — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  you  or  any  one  else  to  feel  with 
me,"  said  the  voice  which  for  all  its  low  pitch  was  be- 
ginning to  make  him  feel  as  though  he  were  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  hail-storm.  "You  are  a  man  of  the  world,  you 
knew  my  parents,  and  yet  I  understand  perfectly  that  for 
you,  too,  I  am  disgraced.  So  be  it!  So  be  it!  I  don't 
quarrel  with  what  any  one  may  choose  to  think,  but — " 

She  recaptured  herself  with  difficulty,  and  there  was 
silence.  They  were  walking  through  the  purple  February 
dusk  towards  the  Marble  Arch.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
her  face  under  its  delicate  veil,  and  Sir  Wilfrid  did  not 

63 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

wish  to  see  it.  But  before  he  had  collected  his  thoughts 
sufficiently  his  companion  was  speaking  again,  in  a 
wholly  different  manner. 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  talk  in  this  way.  It 
was  the  contact  with  some  one,  I  suppose,  who  had  seen 
us  at  Gherardtsloo."  She  raised  her  veil,  and  he  thought 
that  she  dashed  away  some  tears.  "That  never  hap- 
pened to  me  before  in  London.  Well,  now,  to  return. 
If  there  is  a  breach — " 

"Why  should  there  be  a  breach?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Le  Breton,  listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes. 
I  see  perfectly  that  you  have  a  great  deal  to  complain 
of,  but  I  also  see  that  Lady  Henry  has  something  of  a 
case." 

And  with  a  courteous  authority  and  tact  worthy  of 
his  trade,  the  old  diplomat  began  to  discuss  the  situation. 

Presently  he  found  himself  talking  with  an  anima- 
tion, a  friendliness,  an  intimacy  that  surprised  himself. 
What  was  there  in  the  personality  beside  him  that  seem- 
ed to  win  a  way  inside  a  man's  defences  in  spite  of  him? 
Much  of  what  she  had  said  had  seemed  to  him  arrogant 
or  morbid.  And  yet  as  she  listened  to  him,  with  an  evi- 
dent dying  down  of  passion,  an  evident  forlornness,  he 
felt  in  her  that  woman's  weakness  and  timidity  of  which 
she  had  accused  herself  in  relation  to  Lad}^  Henry,  and 
was  somehow,  manlike,  softened  and  disarmed.  She 
had  been  talking  wildly,  because  no  doubt  she  felt  her- 
self in  great  difficulties.  But  when  it  was  his  turn  to 
talk  she  neither  resented  nor  resisted  what  he  had  to 
say.  The  kinder  he  was,  the  more  she  yielded,  almost 
eagerly  at  times,  as  though  the  thorniness  of  her  own 
speech  had  hurt  herself  most,  and  there  were  behind  it 

63 


Lady    Rose's   Daughter 

all  a  j^ad  life,  and  a  sad  heart  that  only  asked  in  truth 
for  a  little  sympathy  and  understanding. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  calling  her  'my  dear'  and  patting  her 
hand,"  thought  the  old  man,  at  last,  astonished  at  him- 
self. For  the  dejection  in  her  attitude  and  gait  began 
to  weigh  upon  him ;  he  felt  a  warm  desire  to  sustain  and 
comfort  her.  More  and  more  thought,  more  and  more 
contrivance  did  he  throw  into  the  straightening  out  of 
this  tangle  between  two  excitable  women,  not,  it  seemed, 
for  Lady  Henry's  sake,'  not,  surely,  for  Miss  Le  Breton's 
sake.  But — ah!  those  two  poor,  dead  folk,  who  had 
touched  his  heart  long  ago,  did  he  feel  the  hovering  of 
their  ghosts  beside  him  in  the  wintry  wind? 

At  any  rate,  he  abounded  in  shrewd  and  fatherly  ad- 
vice, and  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  listened  with  a  most 
flattering  meekness. 

"Well,  now  I  think  we  have  come  to  an  understand- 
ing," he  urged,  hopefully,  as  they  turned  down  Bruton 
Street  again. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  sighed. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you.  Oh,  I  will  do  my  best. 
But—" 

She  shook  her  head  uncertainly. 

"No — no  'buts,'"  cried  Sir  Wilfrid,  cheerfully.  "Sup- 
pose,  as  a  first  step,"  he  smiled  at  his  companion,  "you 
tell  Lady  Henry  about  the  bazaar?" 

"By  all  means.  She  won't  let  me  go.  But  Evelyn 
will  find  some  one  else." 

"Oh,  we'll  see  about  that,"  said  the  old  man,  almost 
crossly.     "If  you'll  allow  me  I'll  try  my  hand." 

Julie  Le  Breton  did  not  reply,  but  her  face  ghmmered 
upon  him  with  a  wistful  friendliness  that  did  not  escape 

64 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

him,  even  in  the  darkness.  In  this  yielding  mood  her 
voice  and  movements  had  so  much  subdued  sweetness, 
so  much  distinction,  that  he  felt  himself  more  than  melt- 
ing towards  her. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  a  thought — a  couple  of  thoughts — 
sped  across  him.  He  drew  himself  rather  sharply  to- 
gether. 

"Mr.  Delafield,  I  gather,  has  been  a  good  deal  con- 
cerned in  the  whole  matter?" 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  laughed  and  hesitated. 

"He  has  been  very  kind.  He  heard  Lady  Henry's 
language  once  when  she  was  excited.  It  seemed  to 
shock  him.  He  has  tried  once  or  twice  to  smooth  her 
down.     Oh,  he  has  been  most  kind!" 

"Has  he  any  influence  with  her?" 

"Not  much." 

"Do  you  think  well  of  him?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  calculated  abruptness.  She 
showed  a  little  surprise. 

"I?  But  everybody  thinks  well  of  him.  They  say 
the  Duke  trusts  everything  to  him." 

"When  I  left  England  he  was  still  a  rather  lazy  and 
unsatisfactory  undergraduate.  I  was  curious  to  know 
how  he  had  developed.  Do  you  know  what  his  chief 
interests  are  now?" 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  hesitated. 

"I'm  really  afraid  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  at  last, 
smiling,  and,  as  it  were,  regretful.  "But  Evelyn  Crow- 
borough,  of  course,  could  tell  you  all  about  him.  She 
and  he  are  very  old  friends." 

"No  birds  out  of  that  cover,"  was  Sir  Wilfrid's  in- 
ward comment. 

s  6? 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  lamp  over  Lady  Henry's  door  was  already  in  sight 
when  Sir  Wilfrid,  after  some  talk  of  the  Montresors,  with 
whom  he  was  going  to  dine  that  night,  carelessly  said: 

"That's  a  very  good-looking  fellow,  that  Captain 
Warkworth,  whom  I  saw  with  Lady  Henry  last  night." 

"Ah,  yes.  Lady  Henry  has  made  great  friends  with 
him,"  said  Mademoiselle  Julie,  readily.  "She  consults 
him  about  her  memoir  of  her  husband." 

"  Memoir  of  her  husband!"  Sir  Wilfrid  stopped  short. 
"Heavens  above!     Memoir  of  Lord  Henry?" 

"She  is  half-way  through  it.     I  thought  you  knew." 

"Well,  upon  my  word!  Whom  shall  we  have  a 
memoir  of  next?  Henry  Delafield!  Henry  Delafield! 
Good  gracious!" 

And  Sir  Wilfrid  walked  along,  slashing  at  the  railings 
with  his  stick,  as  though  the  action  relieved  him.  Julie 
Le  Breton  quietly  resumed: 

"I  understand  that  Lord  Henry  and  Captain  Wark- 
worth's  father  went  through  the  Indian  Mutiny  together, 
and  Captain  Warkworth  has  some  letters — " 

"Oh,  I  dare  say — I  dare  say,"  muttered  Sir  Wilfrid. 
"What's  this  man  home  for  just  now?" 

"Well,  I  think  Lady  Henry  knows,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Julie,  turning  to  him  an  open  look,  like  one  who,  once 
more,  would  gladly  satisfy  a  questioner  if  they  could. 
"He  talks  to  her  a  great  deal.  But  why  shouldn't  he 
come  home?" 

"  Because  he  ought  to  be  doing  disagreeable  duty  with 
his  regiment  instead  of  always  racing  about  the  world 
in  search  of  something  to  get  his  name  up,"  said  Sir  Wil- 
frid, rather  sharply.  "At  least,  that's  the  view  his 
brother  officers  mostly  take  of  him." 

66 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oh,"  said  Mademoiselle  Julie,  with  amiable  vague- 
ness, "is  there  anything  particular  that  you  suppose  he 
wants?" 

"I  am  not  at  all  in  the  secret  of  his  ambitions,"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  lifting  his  shoulders.  "But  you  and  Lady 
Henry  seemed  well  acquainted  with  him." 

The  straw-colored  lashes  veered  her  way. 

"  I  had  some  talk  with  him  in  the  Park  this  morning," 
said  Julie  Le  Breton,  reflectively.  "He  wants  me  to 
copy  his  father's  letters  for  Lady  Henry,  and  to  get  her 
to  return  the  originals  as  soon  as  possible.  He  feels 
nervous  when  they  are  out  of  his  hands." 

"Hm!"  said  Sir  Wilfrid. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Henry's  door -bell  presented 
itself.  The  vigor  with  which  Sir  Wilfrid  rang  it  may, 
perhaps,  have  expressed  the  liveliness  of  his  unspoken 
scepticism.  He  did  not  for  one  moment  believe  that 
General  Warkworth's  letters  had  been  the  subject  of  the 
conversation  he  had  witnessed  that  morning  in  the  Park, 
nor  that  filial  veneration  had  had  anything  whatever  to 
say  to  it. 

Julie  Le  Breton  gave  him  her  hand. 
,     "Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said,  gravely  and  softly. 

Sir  Wilfrid  at  the  moment  before  had  not  meant  to 
press  it  at  all.  But  he  did  press  it,  aware  the  while  of 
the  most  mingled  feelings. 

"On  the  contrary,  you  were  very  good  to  allow  me 
this  conversation.  Command  me  at  any  time  if  I  can 
be  useful  to  you  and  Lady  Henry." 

Julie  Le  Breton  smiled  upon  him  and  was  gone. 
'     Sir  Wilfrid  ran  down  the  steps,  chafing  at  himself. 

"She  somehow  gets  round  one,"  he  thought,  with  a 

67 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

touch  of  annoyance.  "I  wonder  whether  I  made  any- 
real  impression  upon  her.  Hm!  Let's  see  whether 
Montresor  can  throw  any  more  hght  upon  her.  He 
seemed  to  be  pretty  intimate.  Her  'principles,'  eh? 
A  dangerous  view  to  take,  for  a  woman  of  that  proven- 
ance. " 

An  hour  or  two  later  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  presented  him- 
self in  the  Montresors'  drawing-room  in  Eaton  Place. 
He  had  come  home  feeling  it  essential  to  impress  upon 
the  cabinet  a  certain  line  of  action  with  regard  to  the 
policy  of  Russia  on  the  Persian  Gulf.  But  the  first  per- 
son he  perceived  on  the  hearth-rug,  basking  before  the 
Minister's  ample  fire,  v/as  Lord  Lackington.  The  sight 
of  that  vivacious  countenance,  that  shock  of  white  hair, 
that  tall  form  still  boasting  the  spareness  and  almost  the 
straightness  of  youth,  that  unsuspecting  complacency, 
confused  his  ideas  and  made  him  somehow  feel  the 
whole  world  a  little  topsy-turvy. 

Nevertheless,  after  dinner  he  got  his  fifteen  minutes 
of  private  talk  with  his  host,  and  conscientiously  made 
use  of  them.  Then,  after  an  appointment  had  been  set- 
tled for  a  longer  conversation  on  another  day,  both  men 
felt  that  they  had  done  their  duty,  and,  as  it  appeared, 
the  same  subject  stirred  in  both  their  minds. 

"Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of  Lady  Henry?"  said 
Montresor,  with  a  smile,  as  he  lighted  another  cigarette. 

"She's  very  bhnd,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  "and  more  rheu- 
matic. But  else  there's  not  much  change.  On  the 
whole  she  wears  wonderfully  well." 

"Except  as  to  her  temper,  poor  lady!"  laughed  the 
Minister.     "She  has  really  tried  all  our  nerves  of  late. 

68 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  most  of  it  falls  upon  that 
poor  woman  who  lives  with  her  " — the  Minister  lowered 
his  voice — "one  of  the  most  interesting  and  agreeable 
creatures  in  the  world." 

Sir  Wilfrid  glanced  across  the  table.  Lord  Lacking- 
ton  was  telling  scandalous  tales  of  his  youth  to  a  couple 
of  Foreign  Office  clerks,  who  sat  on  either  side  of  him, 
laughing  and  spurring  him  on.  The  old  man's  careless 
fluency  and  fun  were  evidently  contagious;  animation 
reigned  around  him;  he  was  the  spoiled  child  of  the 
dinner,  and  knew  it. 

"I  gather  that  you  have  taken  a  friendly  interest  in 
Miss  Le  Breton,"  said  Bury,  turning  to  his  host. 

"Oh,  the  Duchess  and  Delafield  and  I  have  done  our 
best  to  protect  her,  and  to  keep  the  peace.  I  am  quite 
sure  Lady  Henry  has  poured  out  her  grievances  to  you, 
hasn't  she?" 

"Alack,  she  has!" 

"  I  knew  she  couldn't  hold  her  tongue  to  you,  even  for 
a  day.  She  has  really  been  losing  her  head  over  it. 
And  it  is  a  thousand  pities." 

"So  you  think  all  the  fault's  on  Lady  Henry's  side?" 

The  Minister  gave  a  shrug. 

"At  any  rate,  I  have  never  myself  seen  anything  to 
justify  Lady  Henry's  state  of  feeling.  On  the  famous 
Wednesdays,  Mademoiselle  Julie  always  appears  to  make 
Lady  Henry  her  first  thought.  And  in  other  ways  she 
has  really  worn  herself  to  death  for  the  old  lady.  It 
makes  one  rather  savage  sometimes  to  see  it." 

"So  in  your  eyes  she  is  a  perfect  companion?" 

Montresor  laughed. 

"Oh,  as  to  perfection — " 

69 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Lady  Henry  accuses  her  of  intrigue.  You  have  seen 
no  traces  of  it?" 

The  Minister  smiled  a  little  oddly. 

"  Not  as  regards  Lady  Henry.  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Julie 
is  a  very  astute  lady." 

A  ripple  from  some  source  of  secret  amusement  spread 
over  the  dark-lined  face. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"She  knows  how  to  help  her  friends  better  than  most 
people.  I  have  known  three  men,  at  least,  made  by 
Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  within  the  last  two  or  three 
years.     She  has  just  got  a  fresh  one  in  tow." 

Sir  Wilfrid  moved  a  little  closer  to  his  host.  They 
turned  slightly  from  the  table  and  seemed  to  talk  into 
their  cigars. 

"Young  Warkworth?"  said  Bury. 

The  Minister  smiled  again  and  hesitated. 

"Oh,  she  doesn't  bother  me,  she  is  much  too  clever. 
But  she  gets  at  me  in  the  most  amusing,  indirect  ways. 
I  know  perfectly  well  when  she  has  been  at  work.  There 
are  two  or  three  men — high  up,  you  understand — who 
frequent  Lady  Henry's  evenings,  and  who  are  her  very 
good  friends.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  dare  say  she'll  get  what  she 
wants,"  he  added,  with  nonchalance. 

"Between  you  and  me,  do  you  suspect  any  direct  in- 
terest in  the  young  man?" 

Montresor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know.  Not  necessarily.  She  loves  to  feel 
herself  a  power — all  the  more,  I  think,  because  of  her 
anomalous  position.  It  is  very  curious — at  bottom  very 
feminine  and  amusing — and  quite  harmless  " 

"You  and  others  don't  resent  it?" 

70 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"No,  not  from  her,"  said  the  Minister,  after  a  pause. 
"But  she  is  rather  going  it,  just  now.  Three  or  four 
batteries  have  opened  upon  me  at  once.  She  must  be 
thinking  of  Httle  else." 

Sir  Wilfrid  grew  a  trifle  red.  He  remembered  the 
comedy  of  the  door-step.  "  Is  there  anything  that  he 
particularly  wants?"  His  tone  assumed  a  certain  as- 
perity. 

"Well,  as  for  me,  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  Lady 
Henry  has  something  to  say  for  herself.  It  is  very 
strange — mysterious  even — the  kind  of  ascendency  this 
lady  has  obtained  for  herself  in  so  short  a  time." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  it's  hard  for  Lady  Henry  to  put  up 
with,"  mused  Montresor.  "Without  family,  without 
connections — " 

He  raised  his  head  quietly  and  put  on  his  eye-glasses. 
Then  his  look  swept  the  face  of  his  companion. 

Sir  Wilfrid,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  yet  significant 
gesture,  motioned  towards  Lord  Lackington.  Mr.  Mon- 
tresor started.  The  eyes  of  both  men  travelled  across 
the  table,  then  met  again. 

"You  know?"  said  Montresor,  under  his  breath. 

Sir  Wilfrid  nodded.  Then  some  instinct  told  him  that 
he  had  now  exhausted  the  number  of  the  initiated. 

When  the  men  reached  the  drawing-room,  which  was 
rather  emptily  waiting  for  the  "reception"  Mrs  Montre- 
sor was  about  to  hold  in  it,  Sir  Wilfrid  fell  into  conversa- 
tion with  Lord  Lackington.  The  old  man  talked  well, 
though  flightily,  with  a  constant  reference  of  all  topics 
to  his  own  standards,  recollections,  and  friendships, 
which  was  characteristic,  but  in  him  not  unattractive. 

71 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Sir  Wilfrid  noticed  certain  new  and  pitiful  signs  of  age. 
The  old  man  was  still  a  rattle.  But  every  now  and  then 
the  rattle  ceased  abruptly  and  a  breath  of  melancholy 
made  itself  felt — like  a  chill  and  sudden  gust  from  some 
unknown  sea. 

They  were  joined  presently,  as  the  room  filled  up,  by 
a  young  journalist — an  art  critic,  who  seemed  to  know 
Lord  Lackington  and  his  ways.  The  two  fell  eagerly 
into  talk  about  pictures,  especially  of  an  exhibition  at 
Antwerp,  from  which  the  young  man  had  just  returned. 

"I  looked  in  at  Bruges  on  the  way  back  for  a  few 
hours,"  said  the  new-comer,  presently.  "The  pictures 
there  are  much  better  seen  than  they  used  to  be.  When 
were  you  there  last?"     He  turned  to  Lord  Lackington. 

"  Bruges?"  said  Lord  Lackington,  with  a  start.  "  Oh, 
I  haven't  been  there  for  twenty  years." 

And  he  suddenly  sat  down,  dangling  a  paper-knife 
between  his  hands,  and  staring  at  the  carpet.  His  jaw 
dropped  a  little.  A  cloud  seemed  to  interpose  between 
him  and  his  companions. 

Sir  Wilfrid,  with  Lady  Henry's  story  fresh  in  his 
memory,  was  somehow  poignantly  conscious  of  the  old 
man.  Did  their  two  minds  hold  the  same  image — of 
Lady  Rose  drawing  her  last  breath  in  some  dingy  room 
beside  one  of  the  canals  that  wind  through  Bruges,  lay- 
ing down  there  the  last  rehcs  of  that  life,  beauty,  and 
intelligence  that  had  once  made  her  the  darling  of  the 
father,  who,  for  some  reason  still  hard  to  understand, 
had  let  her  suffer  and  die  alone? 


V 

ON  leaving  the  Montresors,  Sir  Wilfrid,  seeing  that 
it  was  a  fine  night  with  mild  breezes  abroad,  refused 
a  hansom,  and  set  out  to  walk  home  to  his  rooms  in 
Duke  Street,  St.  James's.  He  was  so  much  in  love  with 
the  mere  streets,  the  mere  clatter  of  the  omnibuses  and 
shimmer  of  the  lamps,  after  his  long  absence,  that  e very- 
step  was  pleasure.  At  the  top  of  Grosvenor  Place  he 
stood  still  awhile  only  to  snuff  up  the  soft,  rainy  air,  or 
to  delight  his  eye  now  with  the  shining  pools  which  some 
showers  of  the  afternoon  had  left  behind  them  on  the 
pavement,  and  now  with  the  light  veil  of  fog  which 
closed  in  the  distance  of  Piccadilly. 

"And  there  are  silly  persons  who  grumble  about  the 
fogs!"  he  thought,  contemptuously,  while  he  was  thus 
yielding  himself  heart  and  sense  to  his  beloved  Lon- 
don. 

As  for  him,  dried  and  wilted  by  long  years  of  cloudless 
heat,  he  drank  up  the  moisture  and  the  mist  with  a  kind 
of  physical  passion — the  noises  and  the  lights  no  less. 
And  when  he  had  resumed  his  walk  along  the  crowded 
street,  the  question  buzzed  within  him,  whether  he  must 
indeed  go  back  to  his  exile,  either  at  Teheran,  or  nearer 
home,  in  some  more  exalted  post?  "I've  got  plenty  of 
money;  why  the  deuce  don't  I  give  it  up,  and  come 
home  and  enjoy  myself?     Only  a  few  more  years,  after 

73 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

all;  why  not  spend   them   here,   in   one's   own   world, 
among  one's  own  kind?" 

It  was  the  weariness  of  the  governing  Englishman,  and 
it  was  answered  immediately  by  that  other  instinct, 
partly  physical,  partly  moral,  which  keeps  the  elderly 
man  of  affairs  to  his  task.  Idleness?  No!  That  way 
lies  the  end.  To  slacken  the  rush  of  life,  for  men  of  his 
sort,  is  to  call  on  death — death,  the  secret  pursuer,  who 
is  not  far  from  each  one  of  us.  No,  no!  Fight  on!  It 
was  only  the  long  drudgery  behind,  under  alien  suns,  to- 
gether with  the  iron  certainty  of  fresh  drudgery  ahead, 
that  gave  value,  after  all,  to  this  rainy,  this  enchanting 
Piccadilly — that  kept  the  string  of  feeling  taut  and  all 
its  notes  clear. 

"Going  to  bed.  Sir  Wilfrid?"  said  a  voice  behind  him, 
as  he  turned  down  St.  James's  Street. 

"  Delafield!"  The  old  man  faced  round  with  alacrity. 
"Where  have  you  sprung  from?" 

Delafield  explained  that  he  had  been  dining  with  the 
Crowboroughs,  and  was  now  going  to  his  club  to  look  for 
news  of  a  friend's  success  or  failure  in  a  north-country 
election. 

"Oh,  that  '11  keep!"  said  Sir  Wilfrid.  "Turn  in  with 
me  for  half  an  hour.  I'm  at  my  old  rooms,  you  know, 
in  Duke  Street." 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  man,  after  what  seemed 
to  Sir  Wilfrid  a  moment  of  hesitation, 

"Are  you  often  up  in  town  this  way?"  asked  Bury,  as 
they  walked  on.  "Land  agency  seems  to  be  a  profes- 
sion with  mitigations." 

"  There  is  some  London  business  thrown  in.  We  have 
some  large  milk  depots  in  town  that  I  look  after." 

74 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

There  was  just  a  trace  of  hurry  in  the  young  man's 
voice,  and  Bury  surveyed  him  with  a  smile. 

"No  other  attractions,  eh?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  By-the-way,  Sir  Wilfrid,  I 
never  asked  you  how  Dick  Mason  was  getting  on?" 

"Dick  Mason?     Is  he  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"Well,  we  were  at  Eton  and  Oxford  together." 

"  Were  you?     I  never  heard  him  mention  your  name." 

The  young  man  laughed. 

"I  don't  mean  to  suggest  he  couldn't  live  without 
me.  You've  left  him  in  charge,  haven't  you,  at  Te- 
heran?" 

"Yes,  I  have — worse  luck.  So  you're  deeply  inter- 
ested in  Dick  Mason?" 

"Oh,  come — I  liked  him  pretty  well." 

"Hm — I  aon't  much  care  about  him.  And  I  don't 
somehow  believe  you  do." 

And  Bury,  with  a  smile,  slipped  a  friendly  hand  with- 
in the  arm  of  his  companion. 

Delafield  reddened. 

"It's  decent,  I  suppose,  to  inquire  after  an  old  school- 
fellow?" 

"  Exemplary.  But — there  are  things  more  amusing 
to  talk  about." 

Delafield  was  silent.  Sir  Wilfrid's  fair  mustaches 
approached  his  ear. 

"I  had  my  interview  with  Mademoiselle  Julie." 

"So  I  suppose.     I  hope  you  did  some  good." 

"  I  doubt  it.  Jacob,  between  ourselves,  the  little  Duch- 
ess hasn't  been  a  miracle  of  wisdom." 

"No — perhaps  not,"  said  the  other,  unwillingly. 

"She  realizes,  I  suppose,  that  they  are  connected?" 

75 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Of  course.  It  isn't  very  close.  Lady  Rose's  brother 
married  Evelyn's  aunt,  her  mother's  sister." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  She  and  Mademoiselle  Julie  ought  to 
have  called  the  same  person  uncle;  but,  for  lack  of  cer- 
tain ceremonies,  they  don't.  By-the-way,  what  became 
of  Lady  Rose's  younger  sister?" 

"  Lady  Blanche?  Oh,  she  married  Sir  John  Moffatt, 
and  has  been  a  widow  for  years.  He  left  her  a  place  in 
Westmoreland,  and  she  lives  there  generally  with  her 
girl." 

"Has  Mademoiselle  Julie  ever  come  across  them?" 

"No." 

"She  speaks  of  them?" 

."Yes.  We  can't  tell  her  much  about  them,  except 
that  the  girl  was  presented  last  year,  and  went  to  a  few 
balls  in  town.  But  neither  she  nor  her  mother  cares  for 
London." 

"  Lady  Blanche  Moffatt — Lady  Blanche  Moffatt?"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  pausing.  "Wasn't  she  in  India  this  win- 
ter?" 

"Yes.  I  believe  they  went  out  in  November  and  are 
to  be  home  by  April." 

"Somebody  told  me  they  had  met  her  and  the  girl 
at  Peshawar  and  then  at  Simla,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  ru- 
minating. "Now  I  remember!  She's  a  great  heiress, 
isn't  she,  and  pretty  to  boot?  I  know!  Somebody  told 
me  that  fellow  Warkworth  had  been  making  up  to 
her." 

"Warkworth?"  Jacob  Delafield  stood  still  a  moment, 
and  Sir  Wilfrid  caught  a  sudden  contraction  of  the  brow. 
"That,  of  course,  was  just  a  bit  of  Indian  gossip." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  dryly.     "My  in- 

76 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

formants  were  two  frontier  officers — I  came  from  Egypt 
with  them — who  had  recently  been  at  Peshawar;  good 
fellows  both  of  them,  not  at  all  given  to  take  young 
ladies'  names  in  vain." 

Jacob  made  no  reply.  They  had  let  themselves  into 
the  Duke  Street  house  and  were  groping  their  way  up 
the  dim  staircase  to  Sir  Wilfrid's  rooms. 

There  all  was  light  and  comfort.  Sir  Wilfrid's  valet, 
much  the  same  age  as  himself,  hovered  round  his  master, 
brought  him  his  smoking-coat,  offered  Delafield  cigars, 
and  provided  Sir  Wilfrid,  strange  to  say,  with  a  large 
cup  of  tea. 

"  I  follow  Mr.  Gladstone,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  with  a  sigh 
of  luxury,  as  he  sank  into  an  easy-chair  and  extended 
a  very  neatly  made  pair  of  legs  and  feet  to  the  blaze. 
"  He  seems  to  have  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just — on  a  cup 
of  tea  at  midnight — through  the  rise  and  fall  of  cabinets. 
So  I'm  trying  the  receipt." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  are  hankering  after  poli- 
tics?" 

"Heavens!  When  you  come  to  doddering,  Jacob,  it's 
better  to  dodder  in  the  paths  you  know.  I  salute  Mr. 
G.'s  physique,  that's  all.  Well,  now,  Jacob,  do  you 
know  anything  about  this  Warkworth?" 

"Warkworth?"  Delafield  withdrew  his  cigar,  and 
seemed  to  choose  his  words  a  little.  "Well,  I  know 
what  all  the  world  knows." 

"  Hm — you  seemed  very  sure  just  now  that  he  wasn't 
going  to  marry  Miss  Moffatt." 

"Sure?  I'm  not  sure  of  anything,"  said  the  young 
man,  slowly. 

"Well,  what  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 

77 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

cradling  his  teacup  in  both  hands,  "is,  what  particular 
interest  has  Mademoiselle  Julie  in  that  young  soldier?" 

Delafield  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Has  she  any?" 

"She  seems  to  be  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  get 
him  what  he  wants.  By -the -way,  what  does  he 
want?" 

"He  wants  the  special  mission  to  Mokembe,  as  I  un- 
derstand," said  Delafield,  after  a  moment.  "But  sev- 
eral other  people  want  it  too." 

' '  Indeed ! "  Sir  Wilfrid  nodded  reflectively .  "So  there 
is  to  be  one!  Well,  it's  about  time.  The  travellers  of 
the  other  European  firms  have  been  going  it  lately  in 
that  quarter.  Jacob,  your  mademoiselle  also  is  a  bit  of 
an  intriguer!" 

Delafield  made  a  restless  movement.  "Why  do  you 
say  that?" 

"Well,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  frankness  is  not  one  of 
her  characteristics.  I  tried  to  question  her  about  this 
man.  I  had  seen  them  together  in  the  Park,  talking  as 
intimates.  So,  when  our  conversation  had  reached  a 
friendly  stage,  I  threw  out  a  feeler  or  two,  just  to  satisfy 
myself  about  her.     But — " 

He  pulled  his  fair  mustaches  and  smiled. 

"Well?"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  kind  of  reluctant 
interrogation. 

"She  played  with  me,  Jacob.  But  really  she  overdid 
it.  For  such  a  clever  woman,  I  assure  you,  she  overdid 
it!" 

"I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't  keep  her  friendships 
to  herself,"  said  Delafield,  with  sudden  heat. 

"Oh,  so  you  admit  it  is  a  friendship?" 

78 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Delafield  did  not  reply.  He  had  laid  down  his  cigar, 
and  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  was  looking  steadily  into 
the  fire.  His  attitude,  however,  was  not  one  of  reverie, 
but  rather  of  a  strained  listening. 

"What  is  the  meaning,  Jacob,  of  a  young  woman  tak- 
ing so  keen  an  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  a  dashing  sol- 
dier— for,  between  you  and  me,  I  hear  she  is  moving 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  him  this  post — and  then  con- 
cealing it?" 

"Why  should  she  want  her  kindnesses  talked  of?" 
said  the  young  man,  impetuously.  "She  was  perfectly 
right,  I  think,  to  fence  with  your  questions,  Sir  Wilfrid. 
It's  one  of  the  secrets  of  her  influence  that  she  can  ren- 
der a  service — and  keep  it  dark." 

Sir  Wilfrid  shook  his  head. 

"She  overdid  it,"  he  repeated.  "However,  what  do 
you  think  of  the  man  yourself,  Jacob?" 

"Well,  I  don't  take  to  him,"  saidthe  other,  unwilling- 
ly.    "He  isn't  my  sort  of  man." 

"And  Mademoiselle  Julie — you  think  nothing  but  well 
of  her?  I  don't  like  discussing  a  lady;  but,  you  see,  with 
Lady  Henry  to  manage,  one  must  feel  the  ground  as  one 
can." 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  at  his  companion,  and  then  stretch- 
ed his  legs  a  little  farther  towards  the  fire.  The  lamp- 
light shone  full  on  his  silky  eyelashes  and  beard,  on  his 
neatly  parted  hair,  and  the  diamond  on  his  fine  left 
hand.  The  young  man  beside  him  could  not  emulate 
his  easy  composure.  He  fidgeted  nervously  as  he  re- 
plied, with  warmth: 

"  I  think  she  has  had  an  uncommonly  hard  time,  that 
she  wants  nothing  but  what  is  reasonable,  and  that  if 

79 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

she  threw  you  off  the  scent,  Sir  Wilfrid,  with  regard  to 
Warkworth,  she  was  quite  within  her  rights.  You  prob- 
ably deserved  it." 

He  threw  up  his  head  with  a  quick  gesture  of  chal- 
lenge.    Sir  Wilfrid  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  vow  I  didn't,"  he  murmured.  "  However,  that's  all 
right.  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  down  in  Essex, 
Jacob?" 

The  lines  of  the  young  man's  attitude  showed  a  sud- 
den unconscious  relief  from  tension.  He  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  it's  a  big  estate.     There's  plenty  to  do." 

"You  live  by  yourself?" 

"Yes.  There's  an  agent's  house — a  small  one — in  one 
of  the  villages." 

"How  do  you  amuse  yourself?  Plenty  of  shooting,  I 
suppose?" 

"Too  much.  I  can't  do  with  more  than  a  certain 
amount." 

"Golfing?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  young  man,  indifferently.  "There's 
a  fair  links." 

"Do  you  do  any  philanthropy,  Jacob?" 

"I  like  'bossing'  the  village,"  said  Delafield,  with  a 
laugh.  "  It  pleases  one's  vanity.  That's  about  all  there 
is  to  it." 

"What,  clubs  and  temperance,  that  kind  of  thing? 
Can  you  take  any  real  interest  in  the  people?" 

Delafield  hesitated. 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  said,  at  last,  as  though  he  grudged  the 
admission.  "There's  nothing  else  to  take  an  interest  in, 
is  there?   By-the-way" — he  jumped  up — "I  think  I'll  bid 

80 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

you  good-night,  for  I've  got  to  go  down  to-morrow  in  a 
hurry.     I  must  be  off  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Oh,  it's  only  a  wretched  old  man — that  two  beasts  of 
women  have  put  into  the  workhouse  infirmary  against 
his  will.  I  only  heard  it  to-night.  I  must  go  and  get 
him  out." 

He  looked  round  for  his  gloves  and  stick. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  be  there?" 

"  Because  it's  an  infernal  shame!"  said  the  other,  short- 
ly. "He's  an  old  laborer  who'd  saved  quite  a  lot  of 
money.  He  kept  it  in  his  cottage,  and  the  other  day  it 
was  all  stolen  by  a  tramp.  He  has  lived  with  these  two 
women — his  sister-in-law  and  her  daughter — for  years  and 
years.  As  long  as  he  had  money  to  leave,  nothing  was 
too  good  for  him.  The  shock  half  killed  him,  and  now 
that  he's  a  pauper  these  two  harpies  will  have  nothing 
to  say  to  nursing  him  and  looking  after  him.  He  told 
me  the  other  day  he  thought  they'd  force  him  into  the 
infirmary.  I  didn't  believe  it.  But  while  I've  been 
away  they've  gone  and  done  it." 

"Well,  what  '11  you  do  now?" 

"Get  him  out." 

"And  then?" 

Delafield  hesitated.  "Well,  then,  I  suppose,  he  can 
come  to  my  place  till  I  can  find  some  decent  woman  to 
put  him  with." 

Sir  Wilfrid  rose. 

"I  think  I'll  run  down  and  see  you  some  day.  Will 
there  be  paupers  in  all  the  bedrooms?" 

Delafield  grinned. 

"You'll  find  a  rattHng  good  cook  and  a  jolly  snug 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

little  place,  I  can  tell  you.  Do  come.  But  I  shall  see 
you  again  soon.  I  must  be  up  next  week,  and  very 
likely  I  shall  be  at  Lady  Henry's  on  Wednesday." 

"All  right.  I  shall  see  her  on  Sunday,  so  I  can  re- 
port." 

"Not  before  Sunday?"  Delafield  paused.  His  clear 
blue  eyes  looked  down,  dissatisfied,  upon  Sir  Wilfrid. 

"Impossible  before.  I  have  all  sorts  of  official  peo- 
ple to  see  to-morrow  and  Saturday.  And,  Jacob,  keep 
the  Duchess  quiet.  She  may  have  to  give  up  Mad- 
emoiselle Julie  for  her  bazaar." 

"I'll  tell  her." 

"  By-the-way,  is  that  little  person  happy?"  said  Sir 
Wilfrid,  as  he  opened  the  door  to  his  departing  guest. 
"When  I  left  England  she  was  only  just  married." 

"Oh  yes,  she's  happy  enough,  though  Crowborough's 
rather  an  ass." 

"  How — particularly?" 

Delafield  smiled. 

"Well,  he's  rather  a  sticky  sort  of  person.  He  thinks 
there's  something  particularly  interesting  in  dukes,  which 
makes  him  a  bore." 

"Take  care,  Jacob!  Who  knows  that  you  won't  be 
a  duke  yourself  some  day?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  The  young  man  glowered  al- 
most fiercely  upon  his  old  friend. 

"I  hear  Chudleigh's  boy  is  but  a  poor  creature,"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  gravely.  "  Lady  Henry  doesn't  expect  him 
to  live." 

"Why,  that's  the  kind  that  always  does  live!"  cried 
Delafield,  with  angry  emphasis.  "And  as  for  Lady 
Henry,  her  imagination  is  a  perfect  charnel-house.     She 

82 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

likes  to  think  that  everybody's  dead  or  dying  but  herself. 
The  fact  is  that  Mervyn  is  a  good  deal  stronger  this  year 
than  he  was  last.  Really,  Lady  Henry — "  The  tone 
lost  itself  in  a  growl  of  wrath. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  smiling,  '"A  man  be- 
duked  against  his  will,'  etcetera.  Good-night,  my  dear 
Jacob,  and  good  luck  to  your  old  pauper." 

But  Delafield  turned  back  a  moment  on  the  stairs. 

"I  say" — he  hesitated — "you  won't  shirk  talking  to 
Lady  Henry?" 

"No,  no.  Sunday,  certainly  —  honor  bright.  Oh,  1 
think  we  shall  straighten  it  out." 

Delafield  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  Sir  Wilfrid  returned 
to  his  warm  room  and  the  dregs  of  his  tea. 

"  Now — is  he  in  love  with  her,  and  hesitating  for  social 
reasons?  Or — is  he  jealous  of  this  fellow  Warkworth? 
Or — has  she  snubbed  him,  and  both  are  keeping  it  dark? 
Not  very  likely,  that,  in  view  of  his  prospects.  She 
must  want  to  regularize  her  position.  Or — is  he  not  in 
love  with  her  at  all?" 

On  which  cogitations  there  fell  presently  the  strokes 
of  many  bells  tolling  midnight,  and  left  them  still  un- 
resolved. Only  one  positive  impression  remained — that 
Jacob  Delafield  had  somehow  grown,  vaguely  but  enor- 
mously, in  mental  and  moral  bulk  during  the  years  since 
he  had  left  Oxford — the  years  of  Bury's  Persian  exile. 
Sir  Wilfrid  had  been  an  intimate  friend  of  his  dead  father. 
Lord  Hubert,  and  on  very  friendly  terms  with  his  lethar- 
gic, good-natured  mother.  She,  by-the-way,  was  still 
alive,  and  living  in  London  with  a  daughter.  He  must 
go  and  see  them. 

As  for  Jacob,  Sir  Wilfrid  had  cherished  a  particular 

Si 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

weakness  for  him  in  the  Eton-jacket  stage,  and  later  on, 
indeed,  when  the  lad  enjoyed  a  brief  moment  of  glory  in 
the  Eton  eleven.  But  at  Oxford,  to  Sir  Wilfrid's  think- 
ing, he  had  suffered  eclipse — had  become  a  somewhat 
heavy,  apathetic,  pseudo- cynical  youth,  displaying  his 
mother's  inertia  without  her  good  temper,  too  slack  to 
keep  up  his  cricket,  too  slack  to  work  for  the  honor 
schools,  at  no  time  without  friends,  but  an  enigma  to 
most  of  them,  and,  apparently,  something  of  a  burden  to 
himself. 

And  now,  out  of  that  ugly  slough,  a  man  had  somehow 
emerged,  in  whom  Sir  Wilfrid,  who  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  race,  discerned  the  stirring  of  all  sorts  of  strong 
inherited  things,  formless  still,  but  struggling  to  expres- 
sion. 

"  He  looked  at  me  just  now,  when  I  talked  of  his  being 
duke,  as  his  father  would  sometimes  look." 

His  father?  Hubert  Delafield  had  been  an  obstinate, 
dare-devil,  heroic  sort  of  fellow,  who  had  lost  his  life  in 
the  Chudleigh  salmon  river  trying  to  save  a  gillie  who  had 
missed  his  footing.  A  man  much  hated — and  much  be- 
loved; capable  of  the  most  contradictory  actions.  He 
had  married  his  wife  for  money,  would  often  boast  of  it, 
and  would,  none  the  less,  give  away  his  last  farthing 
recklessly,  passionately,  if  he  were  asked  for  it,  in  some 
way  that  touched  his  feelings.  Able,  too;  though  not  so 
able  as  the  great  Duke,  his  father. 

"Hubert  Delafield  was  never  happy,  that  I  can  re- 
member," thought  Wilfrid  Bury,  as  he  sat  over  his  fire, 
"and  this  chap  has  the  same  expression.  That  woman 
in  Bruton  Street  would  never  do  for  him — apart  from 
all  the  other  unsuitability.     He  ought  to  find  something 

84 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

sweet  and  restful.  And  yet  I  don't  know.  The  Dela- 
fields  are  a  discontented  lot.  If  you  plague  them,  they 
are  inclined  to  love  you.  They  want  something  hard  to 
get  their  teeth  in.  How  the  old  Duke  adored  his  ter- 
magant of  a  wife!" 

It  was  late  on  Sunday  afternoon  before  Sir  Wilfrid  was 
able  to  present  himself  in  Lady  Henry's  drawing-room; 
and  when  he  arrived  there,  he  found  plenty  of  other 
people  in  possession,  and  had  to  wait  for  his  chance. 

Lady  Henry  received  him  with  a  brusque  "At  last," 
which,  however,  he  took  with  equanimity.  He  was  in  no 
sense  behind  his  time.  On  Thursday,  when  parting  with 
her,  he  had  pleaded  for  deliberation.  "  Let  me  study  the 
situation  a  little;  and  don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let's  be 
too  tragic  about  the  whole  thing." 

Whether  Lady  Henry  was  now  in  the  tragic  mood  or 
no,  he  could  not  at  first  determine.  She  was  no  longer 
confined  to  the  inner  shrine  of  the  back  drawing-room. 
Her  chair  was  placed  in  the  large  room,  and  she  was  the 
centre  of  a  lively  group  of  callers  who  were  discussing  the 
events  of  the  week  in  Parliament,  with  the  light  and 
m.ordant  zest  of  people  well  acquainted  with  the  person- 
alities they  were  talking  of.  She  was  apparently  better 
in  health,  he  noticed;  at  any  rate,  she  was  more  at  ease, 
and  enjoying  herself  more  than  on  the  previous  Wednes- 
day. All  her  social  characteristics  were  in  full  play;  the 
blunt  and  careless  freedom  which  made  her  the  good 
comrade  of  the  men  she  talked  with  —  as  good  a  brain 
and  as  hard  a  hitter  as  they — mingled  with  the  occasional 
sally  or  caprice  which  showed  her  very  much  a  woman. 

Very  few  other  women  were  there.     Lady  Henry  did 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

not  want  women  on  Sundays,  and  was  at  no  pains  what- 
ever to  hide  the  fact.  But  Mademoiselle  Julie  was  at  the 
tea-table,  supported  by  an  old  white-haired  general,  in 
whom  Sir  Wilfrid  recognized  a  man  recently  promoted 
to  one  of  the  higher  posts  in  the  War  Office.  Tea,  how- 
ever, had  been  served,  and  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  was 
now  showing  her  companion  a  portfolio  of  photographs, 
on  which  the  old  man  was  holding  forth. 

"Am  I  too  late  for  a  cup?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  after  she 
had  greeted  him  with  cordiality.  "And  what  are  those 
pictures?" 

"They  are  some  photos  of  the  Khaibar  and  Tirah," 
said  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton.  "Captain  Warkworth 
brought  them  to  show  Lady  Henry." 

"Ah,  the  scene  of  his  exploits,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  after 
a  glance  at  them.  "The  young  man  distinguished  him- 
self, I  understand?" 

"Oh,  very  much  so,"  said  General  M'Gill,  with  em- 
phasis.    "He  showed  brains,  and  he  had  luck." 

"A  great  deal  of  luck,  I  hear,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  ac- 
cepting a  piece  of  cake.  "He'll  get  his  step  up,  I  sup- 
pose.    Anything  else?" 

"Difficult  to  say.  But  the  good  men  are  always  in 
request,"  said  General  M'Gill,  smiling. 

"  By-the-way,  I  heard  somebody  mention  his  name 
last  night  for  this  Mokembe  mission,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
helping  himself  to  tea-cake. 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  undecided,"  said  the  General,  sharp- 
ly. "There  is  no  immediate  hurry  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  the  government  must  send  the  best  man  possible." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid. 

It  interested  him  to  observe  that  Mademoiselle  Le  Bre- 

86 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ton  was  no  longer  pale.  As  the  General  spoke,  a  bright 
color  had  rushed  into  her  cheeks.  It  seemed  to  Sir  Wil- 
frid that  she  turned  away  and  busied  herself  with  the 
photographs  in  order  to  hide  it. 

The  General  rose,  a  thin,  soldierly  figure,  with  gray 
hair  that  drooped  forward,  and  two  bright  spots  of  red 
on  the  cheek-bones.  In  contrast  with  the  expansive- 
ness  of  his  previous  manner  to  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton, 
he  was  now  a  trifle  frowning  and  stiff — the  high  official 
once  more,  and  great  man. 

"Good-night,  vSir  Wilfrid.     I  must  be  off." 

"How  are  your  sons?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  as  he  rose. 

"The  eldest  is  in  Canada  with  his  regiment." 

"And  the  second?" 

"The  second  is  in  orders." 

"Overworking  himself  in  the  East  End,  as  all  the 
young  parsons  seem  to  be  doing?" 

"That  is  precisely  what  he  has  been  doing.  But  now, 
I  am  thankful  to  say,  a  country  living  has  been  of- 
fered him,  and  his  mother  and  I  have  persuaded  him 
to  take  it." 

"A  country  living?     Where?" 

"One  of  the  Duke  of  Crowborough's  Shropshire  liv- 
ings," said  the  General,  after  what  seemed  to  be  an  in- 
stant's hesitation.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  had  moved 
away,  and  was  replacing  the  photographs  in  the  drawer 
of  a  distant  bureau. 

"Ah,  one  of  Crowborough's?  Well,  I  hope  it  is  a  liv- 
ing with  something  to  live  on." 

"Not  so  bad,  as  times  go,"  said  the  General,  smiling. 
"It  has  been  a  great  relief  to  our  minds.  There  were 
some  chest  symptoms;  his  mother  was  alarmed.     The 

87 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Duchess  has  been  most  kind;  she  took  quite  a  fancy  to 
the  lad,  and — " 

"What  a  woman  wants  she  gets.  Well,  I  hope  he'll 
like  it.  Good-night,  General.  Shall  I  look  you  up  at 
the  War  Office  some  morning?" 

"  By  all  means." 

The  old  soldier,  whose  tanned  face  had  shown  a  sin- 
gular softness  while  he  was  speaking  of  his  son,  took  his 
leave. 

Sir  Wilfrid  was  left  meditating,  his  eyes  absently  fixed 
on  the  graceful  figure  of  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  who 
shut  the  drawer  she  had  been  arranging  and  returned  to 
him. 

"Do  you  know  the  General's  sons?"  he  asked  her, 
while  she  was  preparing  him  a  second  cup  of  tea. 

"I  have  seen  the  younger." 

She  turned  her  beautiful  eyes  upon  him.  It  seemed  to 
Sir  Wilfrid  that  he  perceived  in  them  a  passing  tremor 
of  nervous  defiance,  as  though  she  were  in  some  way 
bracing  herself  against  him.  But  her  self-possession 
was  complete. 

"Lady  Henry  seems  in  better  spirits,"  he  said,  bend- 
ing towards  her. 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Her  eyes  dropped. 
Then  she  raised  them  again,  and  gently  shook  her  head 
without  a  word.  The  melancholy  energy  of  her  expres- 
sion gave  him  a  moment's  thrill. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  ever?"  he  asked  her,  in  a  whisper. 

"It's  pretty  bad.  I've  tried  to  appease  her.  I  told 
her  about  the  bazaar.  She  said  she  couldn't  spare  me, 
and,  of  course,  I  acquiesced.  Then,  yesterday,  the  Duch- 
ess— hush!" 

88 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"Mademoiselle!" 

Lady  Henry's  voice  rang  imperiously  through  the 
room. 

"Yes,  Lady  Henry." 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  stood  up  expectant. 

"Find  me,  please,  that  number  of  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes  which  came  in  yesterday.  I  can  prove  it  to 
you  in  two  minutes,"  she  said,  turning  triumphantly  to 
Montresor  on  her  right. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  joining  Lady 
Henry's  circle,  while  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  disap- 
peared into  the  back  drawing-room. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Montresor,  tranquilly.  "Lady 
Henry  thinks  she  has  caught  me  out  in  a  blunder — about 
Favre,  and  the  negotiations  at  Versailles.  I  dare  say 
she  has.     I  am  the  most  ignorant  person  alive." 

"Then  are  the  rest  of  us  spooks?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
smiling,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  his  hostess.  Mon- 
tresor, whose  information  on  most  subjects  was  pro- 
digious, laughed  and  adjusted  his  eye-glass.  These 
battles  royal  on  a  date  or  a  point  of  fact  between  him 
and  Lady  Henry  were  not  uncommon.  Lady  Henry 
was  rarely  victorious.  This  time,  however,  she  was  con- 
fident, and  she  sat  frowning  and  impatient  for  the  book 
that  didn't  come. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  indeed,  returned  from  the 
back  drawing-room  empty-handed;  left  the  room  ap- 
parently to  look  elsewhere,  and  came  back  still  without 
the  book. 

"Everything  in  this  house  is  always  in  confusion!" 
said  Lady  Henry,  angrily.  "No  order,  no  method  any- 
where!" 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Mademoiselle  Julie  said  nothing.  She  retreated  be- 
hind the  circle  that  surrounded  Lady  Henry.  But  Mon- 
tresor  jumped  up  and  offered  her  his  chair. 

"I  wish  I  had  you  for  a  secretary,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  gallantly.  "I  never  before  heard  Lady  Henry  ask 
you  for  anything  you  couldn't  find." 

Lady  Henry  flushed,  and,  turning  abruptly  to  Bury, 
began  a  new  topic.  Julie  quietly  refused  the  seat  offered 
to  her,  and  was  retiring  to  an  ottoman  in  the  background 
when  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  the  footman  an- 
nounced : 

"Captain  Warkworth." 


VI 


THE  new-comer  drew  all  eyes  as  he  approached  the 
group  surrounding  Lady  Henry.  Montresor  put  up 
his  glasses  and  bestowed  on  him  a  few  moments  of  scru- 
tiny, during  which  the  Minister's  heavily  marked  face 
took  on  the  wary,  fighting  aspect  which  his  department 
and  the  House  of  Commons  knew.  The  statesman  slip- 
ped in  for  an  instant  between  the  trifler  coming  and  the 
trifler  gone. 

As  for  Wilfrid  Bury,  he  was  dazzled  by  the  young 
man's  good  looks.  " '  Young  Harry  with  his  beaver  up !' " 
he  thought,  admiring  against  his  will,  as  the  tall,  slim 
soldier  paid  his  respects  to  Lady  Henry,  and,  with  a  smil- 
ing word  or  two  to  the  rest  of  those  present,  took  his 
place  beside  her  in  the  circle. 

"Well,  have  you  come  for  your  letters?"  said  Lady 
Henry,  eying  him  with  a  grim  favor. 

"  I  think  I  came — for  conversation,"  was  Warkworth's 
laughing  reply,  as  he  looked  first  at  his  hostess  and  then 
at  the  circle. 

"Then  I  fear  you  won't  get  it,"  said  Lady  Henry, 
throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair.  "  Mr.  Montresor  can 
do  nothing  but  quarrel  and  contradict." 

Montresor  lifted  his  hands  in  wonder. 

"Had  I  been  ^sop,"  he  said,  slyly,  "I  would  have 
added  another  touch  to  a  certain  tale.     Observe,  please! 

91 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

— even  after  the  Lamb  has  been  devoured  he  is  still  the 
object  of  calumny  on  the  part  of  the  Wolf!  Well,  well! 
Mademoiselle,  come  and  console  me.  Tell  me  what  new 
follies  the  Duchess  has  on  foot." 

And,  pushing  his  chair  back  till  he  found  himself  on 
a  level  with  Julie  Le  Breton,  the  great  man  plunged  into 
a  lively  conversation  with  her.  Sir  Wilfrid,  Warkworth, 
and  a  few  other  habitues  endeavored  meanwhile  to 
amuse  Lady  Henry.  But  it  was  not  easy.  Her  brow 
was  lowering,  her  talk  forced.  Throughout,  Sir  Wilfrid 
perceived  in  her  a  strained  attention  directed  towards 
the  conversation  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  She 
could  neither  see  it  nor  hear  it,  but  she  was  jealously 
conscious  of  it.  As  for  Montresor,  there  was  no  doubt 
an  element  of  malice  in  the  court  he  was  now  paying  to 
Mademoiselle  Julie.  Lady  Henry  had  been  thorny  over 
much  during  the  afternoon;  even  for  her  oldest  friend 
she  had  passed  bounds;  he  desired  perhaps  to  bring  it 
home  to  her. 

Meanwhile,  Julie  Le  Breton,  after  a  first  moment  of  re- 
serve and  depression,  had  been  beguiled,  carried  away. 
She  yielded  to  her  own  instincts,  her  own  gifts,  till  Mon- 
tresor, drawn  on  and  drawn  out,  found  himself  floating 
on  a  stream  of  talk,  which  Julie  led  first  into  one  chan- 
nel and  then  into  another,  as  she  pleased ;  and  all  to  the 
flattery  and  glorification  of  the  talker.  The  famous 
Minister  had  come  to  visit  Lady  Henry,  as  he  had  done 
for  many  Sundays  in  many  years;  but  it  was  not  Lady 
Henry,  but  her  companion,  to  whom  his  homage  of  the 
afternoon  was  paid,  who  gave  him  his  moment  of  en- 
joyment —  the  moment  that  would  bring  him  there 
again.     Lady  Henry's  fault,  no  doubt;  but  Wilfrid  Bury, 

92 


i 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

uneasily  aware  every  now  and  then  of  the  dumb  tumult 
that  was  raging  in  the  breast  of  the  haughty  being  be- 
side him,  felt  the  pathos  of  this  slow  discrowning,  and 
was  inchned,  once  more,  rather  to  be  sorry  for  the  older 
woman  than  to  admire  the  younger. 

At  last  Lady  Henry  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Mademoiselle,  be  so  good  as  to  return  his  father's 
letters  to  Captain  Warkworth,"  she  said,  abruptly,  in  her 
coldest  voice,  just  as  Montresor,  dropping  his  —  head 
thrown  back  and  knees  crossed — was  about  to  pour  into 
the  ears  of  his  companion  the  whole  confidential  history 
of  his  appointment  to  office  three  years  before. 

Julie  Le  Breton  rose  at  once.  She  went  towards  a 
table  at  the  farther  end  of  the  large  room,  and  Captain 
Warkworth  followed  her.  Montresor,  perhaps  repenting 
himself  a  little,  returned  to  Lady  Henry;  and  though  she 
received  him  with  great  coolness,  the  circle  round  her, 
now  augmented  by  Dr.  Meredith,  and  another  politician 
or  two,  was  reconstituted;  and  presently,  with  a  con- 
scious effort,  visible  at  least  to  Bury,  she  exerted  herself 
to  hold  it,  and  succeeded. 

Suddenly — just  as  Bury  had  finished  a  very  neat  anal- 
ysis of  the  Shah's  public  and  private  character,  and 
while  the  applauding  laughter  of  the  group  of  intimates 
amid  which  he  sat  told  him  that  his  epigrams  had  been 
good — he  happened  to  raise  his  eyes  towards  the  distant 
settee  where  Julie  Le  Breton  was  sitting. 

His  smile  stiffened  on  his  lips.  Like  an  icy  wave,  a 
swift  and  tragic  impression  swept  through  him.  He 
turned  away,  ashamed  of  having  seen,  and  hid  himself,  as 
it  were,  with  relief,  in  the  clamor  of  amusement  awakened 
by  his  own  remarks. 

93 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

What  had  he  seen?  Merely,  or  mainly,  a  woman's 
face.  Young  Warkworth  stood  beside  the  sofa,  on  which 
sat  Lady  Henry's  companion,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  handsome  head  bent  towards  her.  They  had  been 
talking  earnestly,  wholly  forgetting  and  apparently  for- 
gotten by  the  rest  of  the  room.  On  his  side  there  was 
an  air  of  embarrassment.  He  seemed  to  be  choosing  his 
words  with  difficulty,  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  Julie  Le 
Breton,  on  the  contrary,  was  looking  at  him — looking 
with  all  her  soul,  her  ardent,  unhappy  soul  —  uncon- 
scious of  aught  else  in  the  wide  world. 

"Good  God!  she  is  in  love  with  him!"  was  the  thought 
that  rushed  through  Sir  Wilfrid's  mind.  "Poor  thing! 
Poor  thing!" 

Sir  Wilfrid  outstayed  his  fellow -guests.  By  seven 
o'clock  all  were  gone.  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  had  re- 
tired.    He  and  Lady  Henry  were  left  alone. 

"Shut  the  doors!"  she  said,  peremptorily,  looking 
round  her  as  the  last  guest  disappeared.  "I  must  have 
some  private  talk  with  you.  Well,  I  understand  you 
walked  home  from  the  Crowboroughs'  the  other  night 
with — that  woman." 

She  turned  sharply  upon  him.  The  accent  was  in- 
describable. And  with  a  fierce  hand  she  arranged  the 
folds  of  her  own  thick  silk  dress,  as  though,  for  some  re- 
lief to  the  stormy  feeling  within,  she  would  rather  have 
torn  than  smoothed  it. 

Sir  Wilfrid  seated  himself  beside  her,  knees  crossed, 
finger-tips  lightly  touching,  the  fair  eyelashes  some- 
what lowered — Calm  beside  Tempest. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  so,"  he  said,  gravely, 

94 


Xady    Rose's    Daughter 

after  a  pause.  "Yes,  I  talked  with  her.  She  met  me 
very  fairly,  on  the  whole.  It  seemed  to  me  she  was 
quite  conscious  that  her  behavior  had  not  been  always 
what  it  should  be,  and  that  she  was  sincerely  anxious  to 
change  it.  I  did  my  best  as  a  peacemaker.  Has  she 
made  no  signs  since — no  advances?" 

Lady  Henry  threw  out  her  hand  in  disdain. 

"She  confessed  to  me  that  she  had  pledged  a  great 
deal  of  the  time  for  which  I  pay  her  to  Evelyn  Crow- 
borough's  bazaar,  and  asked  what  she  was  to  do.  I  told 
her,  of  course,  that  I  would  put  up  with  nothing  of  the 
kind." 

"And  were  more  annoyed,  alack!  than  propitiated 
by  her  confession?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  with  a  shrug. 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Lady  Henry.  "You  see,  I  guessed 
that  it  was  not  spontaneous ;  that  you  had  wrung  it  out 
of  her." 

"What  else  did  you  expect  me  to  do?"  cried  Sir  Wil- 
frid. "I  seem,  indeed,  to  have  jolly  well  wasted  my 
time." 

"Oh  no.  You  were  very  kind.  And  I  dare  say  you 
might  have  done  some  good.  I  was  beginning  to — to 
have  some  returns  on  myself,  when  the  Duchess  ap- 
peared on  the  scene." 

"Oh,  the  little  fool!"  ejaculated  Sir  Wilfrid,  under 
his  breath. 

"  She  came,  of  course,  to  beg  and  protest.  She  offered 
me  her  valuable  services  for  all  sorts  of  superfluous  things 
that  I  didn't  want — if  only  I  would  spare  her  Julie  for 
this  ridiculous  bazaar.  So  then  my  back  was  put  up 
again,  and  I  told  her  a  few  home  truths  about  the  way 
in  which  she  had  made  mischief  and  forced  Julie  into  a 

95 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

totally  false  position.  On  which  she  flew  into  a  passion, 
and  said  a  lot  of  silly  nonsense  about  Julie,  that  showed 
me,  among  other  things,  that  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton 
had  broken  her  solemn  compact  with  me,  and  had  told 
her  family  history  both  to  Evelyn  and  to  Jacob  Delafield. 
That  alone  would  be  sufficient  to  justify  me  in  dismiss- 
ing her.     N'est-ce  pas  f" 

"Oh  yes,"  murmured  Sir  Wilfrid,  "if  you  want  to  dis- 
miss her." 

"We  shall  come  to  that  presently,"  said  Lady  Henry, 
shortly.  "Imagine,  please,  the  kind  of  difficulties  in 
which  these  confidences,  if  they  have  gone  any  further — 
and  who  knows? — may  land  me.  I  shall  have  old  Lord 
Lackington — who  behaved  like  a  brute  to  his  daughter 
while  she  was  alive,  and  is,  all  the  same,  a  poseur  from 
top  to  toe — walking  in  here  one  night  and  demanding 
his  granddaughter — spreading  lies,  perhaps,  that  I  have 
been  ill  -  treating  her.  Who  can  say  what  absurdities 
may  happen  if  it  once  gets  out  that  she  is  Lady  Rose's 
child?  I  could  name  half  a  dozen  people,  who  come  here 
habitually,  who  would  consider  themselves  insulted  if 
they  knew — what  you  and  I  know." 

"Insulted?     Because  her  mother — " 

"Because  her  mother  broke  the  seventh  command- 
ment? Oh,  dear,  no!  That,  in  my  opinion,  doesn't 
touch  people  much  nowadays.  Insulted  because  they 
had  been  kept  in  the  dark  —  that's  all.  Vanity,  not 
morals." 

"As  far  as  I  can  ascertain,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  medita- 
tively, "only  the  Duchess,  Delafield,  Montresor,  and  my- 
self are  in  the  secret." 

"Montresor!"    cried    Lady    Henry,    beside    herself. 

q6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

" Montresor  I     That's  new  to  me.     Oh,  she  shall  go  at 
once — at  once!"     She  breathed  hard. 

"Wait  a  little.     Have  you  had  any  talk  with  Jacob?" 

"I  should  think  not!  Evelyn,  of  course,  brings  him 
in  perpetually  —  Jacob  this  and  Jacob  that.  He  seems 
to  have  been  living  in  her  pocket,  and  the  three  have 
been  intriguing  against  me,  m^orning,  noon,  and  night. 
Where  Julie  has  found  the  time  I  can't  imagine;  I 
thought  I  had  kept  her  pretty  well  occupied." 

Sir  Wilfrid  surveyed  his  angry  companion  and  held 
his  peace. 

"So  you  don't  know  what  Jacob  thinks?" 

"Why  should  I  want  to  know?"  said  Lady  Henry,  dis- 
dainfully. "A  lad  whom  I  sent  to  Eton  and  Oxford, 
when  his  father  couldn't  pay  his  bills — what  does  it  mat- 
ter to  me  what  he  thinks?" 

"Women  are  strange  folk,"  thought  Sir  Wilfrid.  "A 
man  wouldn't  have  said  that." 

Then,  aloud: 

"I  thought  you  were  afraid  lest  he  should  want  to 
marry  her?" 

"Oh,  let  him  cut  his  throat  if  he  likes!"  said  Lady 
Henry,  with  the  inconsistency  of  fury.  "What  does  it 
matter  to  me?" 

"  By-the-way,  as  to  that  " — he  spoke  as  though  feeling 
his  way — "have  you  never  had  suspicions  in  quite  an- 
other direction?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  I  hear  a  good  deal  in  various  quarters  of  the 
trouble  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  is  taking — on  behalf  of 
that  young  soldier  who  was  here  just  now — Harry  Wark- 
worth." 

7  97 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry  laughed  impatiently. 

"I  dare  say.  She  is  always  wanting  to  patronize  or 
influence  somebody.  It's  in  her  nature.  She's  a  born 
intrigante.  If  you  knew  her  as  well  as  I  do,  you  wouldn't 
think  much  of  that.  Oh  no — make  your  mind  easy. 
It's  Jacob  she  wants — it's  Jacob  she'll  get,  very  likely. 
What  can  an  old,  blind  creature  like  me  do  to  stop  it?" 

"And  as  Jacob's  wife — the  wife  perhaps  of  the  head  of 
the  family — you  still  mean  to  quarrel  with  her?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  mean  to  quarrel  with  her!"  and  Lady  Henry 
lifted  herself  in  her  chair,  a  pale  and  quivering  image  of 
war — "Duchess  or  no  Duchess!  Did  you  see  the  auda- 
cious way  in  which  she  behaved  this  afternoon? — how 
she  absorbs  my  guests?  —  how  she  allows  and  encour- 
ages a  man  like  Montresor  to  forget  himself? — eggs  him 
on  to  put  slights  on  me  in  my  own  drawing-room!" 

"No,  no!  You  are  really  unjust,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
laying  a  kind  hand  upon  her  arm.  "That  was  not  her 
fault." 

"It  is  her  fault  that  she  is  what  she  is!  —  that  her 
character  is  such  that  she  forces  comparisons  between 
us — between  lier  and  me! — that  she  pushes  herself  into 
a  prominence  that  is  intolerable,  considering  who  and 
what  she  is  —  that  she  makes  me  appear  in  an  odious 
light  to  my  old  friends.  No,  no,  Wilfrid,  your  first  in- 
stinct was  the  true  one.  I  shall  have  to  bring  myself  to 
it,  whatever  it  costs.  She  must  take  her  departure,  or  I 
shall  go  to  pieces,  morally  and  physically.  To  be  in  a 
temper  like  this,  at  my  age,  shortens  one's  life — you 
know  that." 

"And  you  can't  subdue  the  temper?"  he  asked,  with  a 
queer  smile. 

98 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"No,  I  can't!  That's  flat.  She  gets  on  my  nerves, 
and  I'm  not  responsible.     C'est  fini.'' 

"Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  hope  you  understand 
what  it  means?" 

"Oh,  I  know  she  has  plenty  of  friends!"  she  said,  de- 
fiantly.    But  her  old  hands  trembled  on  her  knee. 

"Unfortunately  they  were  and  are  yours.  At  least," 
he  entreated,  "don't  quarrel  with  everybody  who  may 
sympathize  with  her.  Let  them  take  what  view  they 
please.     Ignore  it — be  as  magnanimous  as  you  can." 

"On  the  contrary!"  She  was  now  white  to  the  lips. 
"Whoever  goes  with  her  gives  me  up.  They  must 
choose — once  for  all." 

"My  dear  friend,  listen  to  reason." 

And,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  her,  he  argued  with  her 
for  half  an  hour.  At  the  end  of  that  time  her  gust  of 
passion  had  more  or  less  passed  away;  she  was,  to  some 
extent,  ashamed  of  herself,  and,  as  he  believed,  not  far 
from  tears. 

"When  I  am  gone  she  will  think  of  what  I  have  been 
saying,"  he  assured  himself,  and  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 
Her  look  of  exhaustion  distressed  him,  and,  for  all  her 
unreason,  he  felt  himself  astonishingly  in  sympathy 
with  her.  The  age  in  him  held  out  secret  hands  to 
the  age  in  her — as  against  encroaching  and  rebellious 
youth. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  consciousness  of  this  mood  in  him 
which  at  last  partly  appeased  her. 

"Well,  I'll  try  again.  I'll  try  to  hold  my  tongue,"  she 
granted  him,  sullenly.  "But,  understand,  she  sha'n't 
go  to  that  bazaar!" 

"That's  a  great  pity,"  was  his  naive  reply.     "  Noth- 

99 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ing  would  put  you  in  a  better  position  than  to  give  her 
leave." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  vowed.  "And 
now  good-night,  Wilfrid  —  good-night.  You're  a  very 
good  fellow,  and  if  I  can  take  your  advice,  I  will." 

Lady  Henry  sat  alone  in  her  brightly  lighted  drawing- 
room  for  some  time.  She  could  neither  read  nor  write 
nor  sew,  owing  to  her  blindness,  and  in  the  reaction 
from  her  passion  of  the  afternoon  she  felt  herself  very 
old  and  weary. 

But  at  last  the  door  opened  and  Julie  Le  Breton's 
light  step  approached. 

"May  I  read  to  you?"  she  said,  gently. 

Lady  Henry  coldly  commanded  the  Observer  and  her 
knitting. 

She  had  no  sooner,  however,  begun  to  knit  than  her 
very  acute  sense  of  touch  noticed  something  wrong  with 
the  wool  she  was  using. 

"This  is  not  the  wool  I  ordered,"  she  said,  fingering 
it  carefully.  "You  remember,  I  gave  you  a  message 
about  it  on  Thursday?  What  did  they  say  about  it  at 
Winton's?" 

Julie  laid  down  the  newspaper  and  looked  in  perplex- 
ity at  the  ball  of  wool. 

"I  remember  you  gave  me  a  message,"  she  faltered. 

"Well,  what  did  they  say?" 

"I  suppose  that  was  all  they  had." 

Something  in  the  tone  struck  Lady  Henry's  quick  ears. 
She  raised  a  suspicious  face. 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  Winton's  at  all?"  she  said, 
quickly. 

lOO 


#-  -/ 


^v 


LADY    HENRY    GASPED.        SHE    FELL    BACK    INTO    HER    CHAIR 


J 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  I  am  so  sorry.  The  Duchess's  maid  was  going  there," 
said  Juhe,  hurriedly,  "and  she  went  for  me.  I  thought 
1  had  given  her  your  message  most  carefully." 

"  Hm,"  said  Lady  Henry,  slowly,  "So  you  didn't  go 
to  Winton's.  May  I  ask  whether  you  went  to  Shaw's, 
or  to  Beatson's,  or  the  Stores,  or  any  of  the  other  places 
for  which  I  gave  you  commissions?"  Her  voice  cut  like 
a  knife. 

Julie  hesitated.  She  had  grown  very  white.  Sud- 
denly her  face  settled  and  steadied. 

"No,"  she  said,  calmly.  "I  meant  to  have  done  all 
your  commissions.  But  I  was  persuaded  by  Evelyn  to 
spend  a  couple  of  hours  with  her,  and  her  maid  under- 
took them." 

Lady  Henry  flushed  deeply. 

"So,  mademoiselle,  unknown  to  me,  you  spent  two 
hours  of  my  time  amusing  yourself  at  Crowborough 
House.     May  I  ask  what  you  were  doing  there?" 

"  I  was  trying  to  help  the  Duchess  in  her  plans  for  the 
bazaar." 

"Indeed?  Was  any  one  else  there?  Answer  me, 
mademoiselle." 

Julie  hesitated  again,  and  again  spoke  with  a  kind  of 
passionate  composure. 

"Yes.     Mr.  Delafield  was  there." 

"So  I  supposed.  Allow  me  to  assure  you,  mademoi- 
selle " — Lady  Henry  rose  from  her  seat,  leaning  on  her 
stick;  surely  no  old  face  was  ever  more  formidable,  more 
withering — "that  whatever  ambitions  you  may  cherish, 
Jacob  Delafield  is  not  altogether  the  simpleton  you 
imagine.  I  know  him  better  than  you.  He  will  take 
some   time   before   he   really    makes    up   his   mind   to 

lOI 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

marry  a  woman  of  your  disposition  —  and  your  his- 
tory," 

Julie  Le  Breton  also  rose. 

"I  am  afraid,  Lady  Henry,  that  here,  too,  you  are  in 
the  dark,"  she  said,  quietly,  though  her  thin  arm  shook 
against  her  dress.  "I  shall  not  marry  Mr.  Delafield. 
But  it  is  because — I  have  refused  him  twice." 

Lady  Henry  gasped.  She  fell  back  into  her  chair, 
staring  at  her  companion. 

"You  have — refused  him?" 

"A  month  ago,  and  last  year.  It  is  horrid  of  me  to 
say  a  word.     But  you  forced  me." 

Julie  was  now  leaning,  to  support  herself,  on  the  back 
of  an  old  French  chair.  Feeling  and  excitement  had 
blanched  her  no  less  than  Lady  Henry,  but  her  fine  head 
and  delicate  form  breathed  a  will  so  proud,  a  dignity  so 
passionate,  that  Lady  Henry  shrank  before  her. 

"Why  did  you  refuse  him?" 

Julie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"That,  I  think,  is  my  affair.  But  if  —  I  had  loved 
him — I  should  not  have  consulted  your  scruples,  Lady 
Henry." 

"That's  frank,"  said  Lady  Henry.  "I  like  that  bet- 
ter than  anything  you've  said  yet.  You  are  aware  that 
he  may  inherit  the  dukedom  of  Chudleigh?" 

"I  have  several  times  heard  you  say  so,"  said  the 
other,  coldly. 

Lady  Henry  looked  at  her  long  and  keenly.  Various 
things  that  Wilfrid  Bury  had  said  recurred  to  her.  She 
thought  of  Captain  Warkworth.     She  wondered. 

Suddenly  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  dare  say  you  won't  take  it,  mademoiselle.     I  sup- 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

pose  I've  been  insulting  you.  But — you  have  been  play- 
ing tricks  with  me.  In  a  good  many  ways,  we're  quits. 
Still,  I  confess,  I  admire  you  a  good  deal.  Anyway, 
I  offer  you  my  hand.  I  apologize  for  my  recent  remarks. 
Shall  we  bury  the  hatchet,  and  try  and  go  on  as  before?" 

Julie  Le  Breton  turned  slowly  and  took  the  hand — 
without  unction. 

"I  make  you  angry,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  trem- 
bled, "without  knowing  how  or  why," 

Lady  Henry  gulped. 

"Oh,  it  mayn't  answer,"  she  said,  as  their  hands 
dropped.  "But  we  may  as  well  have  one  more  trial. 
And,  mademoiselle,  I  shall  be  delighted  that  you  should 
assist  the  Duchess  with  her  bazaar." 

Julie  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  any  heart  for  it,"  she  said,  sadly; 
and  then,  as  Lady  Henry  sat  silent,  she  approached. 

"You  look  very  tired.     Shall  I  send  your  maid?" 

That  melancholy  and  beautiful  voice  laid  a  strange 
spell  on  Lady  Henry.  Her  companion  appeared  to  her, 
for  a  moment,  in  a  new  light — as  a  personage  of  drama 
or  romance.     But  she  shook  off  the  spell. 

"At  once,  please.  Another  day  like  this  would  put 
an  end  to  me." 


VII 


JULIE  LE  BRETON  was  sitting  alone  in  her  own 
small  sitting-room.  It  was  the  morning  of  the  Tues- 
day following  her  Sunday  scene  with  Lady  Henry,  and 
she  was  busy  with  various  household  affairs.  A  small 
hamper  of  flowers,  newly  arrived  from  Lady  Henry's 
Surrey  garden,  and  not  yet  unpacked,  was  standing  open 
on  the  table,  with  various  empty  flower-glasses  beside  it. 
Julie  was,  at  the  moment,  occupied  with  the  "Stores 
order"  for  the  month,  and  Lady  Henry's  cook-house- 
keeper had  but  just  left  the  room  after  delivering  an 
urgent  statement  on  the  need  for  "relining"  a  large 
number  of  Lady  Henry's  copper  saucepans. 

The  room  was  plain  and  threadbare.  It  had  been  the 
school-room  of  various  generations  of  Delafields  in  the 
past.  But  for  an  observant  eye  it  contained  a  good 
many  objects  which  threw  light  upon  its  present  occu- 
pant's character  and  history.  In  a  small  bookcase  be- 
side the  fire  were  a  number  of  volumes  in  French  bind- 
ings. They  represented  either  the  French  classics — Ra- 
cine, Bossuet,  Chateaubriand,  Lamartine  —  which  had 
formed  the  study  of  Julie's  convent  days,  or  those  other 
books — George  Sand,  Victor  Hugo,  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Mazzini,  Leopardi,  together  with  the  poets  and  novel- 
ists of  revolutionary  Russia  or  Polish  nationalism  or 
Irish  rebelHon — which  had  been  the  favorite  reading  of 

104 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

both  Lady  Rose  and  her  lover.  They  were  but  a  hun- 
dred in  all;  but  for  Julie  Le  Breton  they  stood  for  the 
bridge  by  which,  at  will,  memory  and  dreamful  pity 
might  carry  her  back  into  that  vanished  life  she  had 
once  shared  with  her  parents — those  strange  beings,  so 
calm  and  yet  so  passionate  in  their  beliefs,  so  wilful  and 
yet  so  patient  in  their  deeds,  by  whose  acts  her  own 
experience  was  still  wholly  conditioned.  In  her  little 
room  there  were  no  portraits  of  them  visible.  But  on  a 
side-table  stood  a  small  carved  triptych.  The  oblong 
wings,  which  were  open,  contained  photographs  of  figures 
from  one  of  the  great  Bruges  Memlings.  The  centre  was 
covered  by  two  wooden  leaves  delicately  carved,  and 
the  leaves  were  locked.  The  inquisitive  housemaid  who 
dusted  the  room  had  once  tried  to  open  them — in  vain. 

On  a  stand  near  the  fire  lay  two  or  three  yellow  vol- 
umes— some  recent  French  essays,  a  volume  of  memoirs, 
a  tale  of  Bourget's,  and  so  forth.  These  were  flanked 
by  Sir  Henry  Maine's  Popular  Government,  and  a  recent 
brilliant  study  of  English  policy  in  Egypt — both  of  them 
with  the  name  "  Richard  J.  Montresor  "  on  the  title-page. 
The  last  number  of  Dr.  Meredith's  paper,  The  New  Ram- 
bler, was  there  also;  and,  with  the  paper-knife  still  in  its 
leaves,  the  journal  of  the  latest  French  traveller  in  Mo- 
kembe,  a  small  "H.  W."  inscribed  in  the  top  right-hand 
corner  of  its  gray  cover. 

Julie  finished  her  Stores  order  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Then  she  wrote  half  a  dozen  business  notes,  and  pre- 
pared a  few  checks  for  Lady  Henry's  signature.  When 
this  was  done  the  two  dachshunds,  who  had  been  lying 
on  the  rug  spying  out  her  every  movement,  began  to 
jump  upon  her. 

105 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

But  Julie  laughed  in  their  faces.  "  It's  raining,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  window — "raining!  So  there! 
Either  you  won't  go  out  at  all,  or  you'll  go  with  John." 

John  was  the  second  footman,  whom  the  dogs  hated. 
They  returned  crestfallen  to  the  rug  and  to  a  hungry 
waiting  on  Providence.  Julie  took  up  a  letter  on  for- 
eign paper  which  had  reached  her  that  morning,  glanced 
at  the  door,  and  began  to  reread  its  closely  written  sheets. 
It  was  from  an  English  diplomat  on  a  visit  to  Egypt,  a 
man  on  whom  the  eyes  of  Europe  were  at  that  moment 
fixed.  That  he  should  write  to  a  woman  at  all,  on  the 
subjects  of  the  letter,  involved  a  compliment  hors  ligne; 
that  he  should  write  with  this  ease,  this  abandonment, 
was  indeed  remarkable.  Julie  flushed  a  little  as  she 
read.  But  when  she  came  to  the  end  she  put  it  aside 
with  a  look  of  worry.  "I  wish  he'd  write  to  Lady 
Henry,"  was  her  thought.  "She  hasn't  had  a  line  from 
him  for  weeks.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  suspects  al- 
ready. When  any  one  talks  of  Egypt,  I  daren't  open 
my  lips." 

For  fear  of  betraying  the  very  minute  and  first-hand 
information  that  was  possessed  by  Lady  Henry's  com- 
panion ?  With  a  smile  and  a  shrug  she  locked  the  letter 
away  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  her  writing-table,  and 
took  up  an  envelope  which  had  lain  beneath  it.  From 
this — again  with  a  look  round  her — she  half  drew  out  a 
photograph.  The  grizzled  head  and  spectacled  eyes  of 
Dr.  Meredith  emerged.  '  Julie's  expression  softened;  her 
eyebrows  went  up  a  little;  then  she  slightly  shook  her 
head,  like  one  who  protests  that  if  something  has  gone 
wrong,  it  isn't  —  isn't  —  their  fault.  Unwillingly  she 
looked  at  the  last  words  of  the  letter: 

io6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"So,  remember,  I  can  give  you  work  if  you  want  it,  and 
paying  work.  I  would  rather  give  you  my  life  and  my  all. 
But  these,  it  seems,  are  commodities  for  which  you  have 
no  use.  So  be  it.  But  if  you  refuse  to  let  me  serve  you, 
when  the  time  comes,  in  such  ways  as  I  have  suggested  in 
this  letter,  then,  indeed,  you  would  be  unkind — I  would 
almost  dare  to  say  ungrateful!  Yours  always 

"F.  M." 

This  letter  also  she  locked  away.  But  her  hand 
lingered  on  the  last  of  all.  She  had  read  it  three  times 
already,  and  knew  it  practically  by  heart.  So  she  left 
the  sheets  undisturbed  in  their  envelope.  But  she 
raised  the  whole  to  her  lips,  and  pressed  it  there,  while 
her  eyes,  as  they  slowly  filled  with  tears,  travelled — un- 
seeing— to  the  wintry  street  beyond  the  window.  Eyes 
and  face  wore  the  same  expression  as  Wilfrid  Bury  had 
surprised  there — the  dumb  utterance  of  a  woman  hard 
pressed,  not  so  much  by  the  world  without  as  by  some 
wild  force  within. 

In  that  still  moment  the  postman's  knock  was  heard 
in  the  street  outside.  Julie  Le  Breton  started,  for  no 
one  whose  life  is  dependent  on  a  daily  letter  can  hear 
that  common  sound  without  a  thrill.  Then  she  smiled 
sadly  at  herself.  ''My  joy  is  over  for  to-day!"  And 
she  turned  away  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

But  she  did  not  place  it  in  the  same  drawer  with  the 
others.  She  moved  across  to  the  Httle  carved  triptych, 
and,  after  listening  a  moment  to  the  sounds  in  the  house, 
she  opened  its  closed  doors  with  a  gold  key  that  hung 
on  her  watch-chain  and  had  been  hidden  in  the  bosom 
of  her  dress. 

The  doors  fell  open.     Inside,  on  a  background  of  dark 

107 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

velvet,  hung  two  miniatures,  lightly  framed  in  gold  and 
linked  together  by  a  graceful  scroll-work  in  gold.  They 
were  of  fine  French  work,  and  they  represented  a  man 
and  woman,  both  handsome,  young,  and  of  a  remarl?- 
able  distinction  of  aspect.  The  faces,  nevertheless,  hard- 
ly gave  pleasure.  There  was  in  each  of  them  a  look 
at  once  absent  and  eager — the  look  of  those  who  have 
cared  much  and  ardently  for  "man,"  and  very  little, 
comparatively,  for  men. 

The  miniatures  had  not  been  meant  for  the  triptych, 
nor  the  triptych  for  them.  It  had  been  adapted  to  them 
by  loving  hands ;  but  there  was  room  for  other  things  in 
the  velvet-lined  hollow,  and  a  packet  of  letters  was  al- 
ready reposing  there.  Julie  slipped  the  letter  of  the 
morning  inside  the  elastic  band  which  held  the  packet; 
then  she  closed  and  locked  the  doors,  returning  the  key 
to  its  place  in  her  dress.  Both  the  lock  and  hinges  of 
this  little  hiding-place  were  well  and  strongly  made,  and 
when  >the  wings  also  were  shut  and  locked  one  saw 
nothing  but  a  massively  framed  photograph  of  the 
Bruges  belfry  resting  on  a  wooden  support. 

She  had  hardly  completed  her  little  task  when  there 
was  a  sudden  noise  of  footsteps  in  the  passage  outside. 

"Julie!"  said  a  light  voice,  subdued  to  a  laughing 
whisper.     "May  I  come  in?" 

The  Duchess  stood  on  the  threshold,  her  small,  shell- 
pink  face  emerging  from  a  masterly  study  in  gray,  pre- 
sented by  a  most  engaging  costume. 

Julie,  in  surprise,  advanced  to  meet  her  visitor,  and 
the  old  butler,  who  was  Miss  Le  Breton's  very  good 
friend,  quickly  and  discreetly  shut  the  door  upon  the 
two  ladies. 

1 08 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  said  the  Duchess,  throwing  herself 
into  JuHe's  arms.  "I  came  up  so  quietly!  I  told  Hut- 
ton  not  to  disturb  Lady  Henry,  and  I  just  crept  up- 
stairs, holding  my  skirts.  Wasn't  it  heroic  of  me  to  put 
my  poor  little  head  into  the  lion's  den  like  this?  But 
when  I  got  your  letter  this  morning  saying  you  couldn't 
come  to  me,  I  vowed  I  would  just  see  for  myself  how 
you  were,  and  whether  there  was  anything  left  of  you. 
Oh,  you  poor,  pale  thing!" 

And  drawing  Julie  to  a  chair,  the  little  Duchess  sat 
down  beside  her,  holding  her  friend's  hands  and  study- 
ing her  face. 

"Tell  me  what's  been  happening — I  believe  you've 
been  crying!     Oh,  the  old  wretch!" 

"You're  quite  mistaken,"  said  Julie,  smiling.  "Lady 
Henry  says  I  may  help  you  with  the  bazaar." 

"No!"  The  Duchess  threw  up  her  hands  in  amaze- 
ment.    "How  have  you  managed  that?" 

"By  giving  in.     But,  Evelyn,  I'm  not  coming." 

"Oh,  Julie!"  The  Duchess  threw  herself  back  in  her 
chair  and  fixed  a  pair  of  very  blue  and  very  reproachful 
eyes  on  Miss  Le  Breton. 

"  No,  I'm  not  coming.  If  I'm  to  stay  here,  even  for  a 
time,  I  mustn't  provoke  her  any  more.  She  says  I  may 
come,  but  she  doesn't  mean  it." 

"  She  couldn't  mean  anything  civil  or  agreeable.  How 
has  she  been  behaving — since  Sunday?" 

Julie  looked  uncertain. 

"Oh,  there  is  an  armed  truce.  I  was  made  to  have  a 
fire  in  my  bedroom  last  night.  And  Hutton  took  the 
dogs  out  yesterday." 

The  Duchess  laughed. 

109 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"  And  there  was  quite  a  scene  on  Sunday?  You  don't 
tell  me  much  about  it  in  your  letter.  But,  Julie  " — her 
voice  dropped  to  a  whisper — "was  anything  said  about 
Jacob?" 

Julie  looked  down.     A  bitterness  crept  into  her  face. 

"Yes.  I  can't  forgive  myself.  I  was  provoked  into 
telling  the  truth." 

"You  did!  Well?  I  suppose  Aunt  Flora  thought  it 
was  all  your  fault  that  he  proposed,  and  an  impertinence 
that  you  refused?" 

"She  was  complimentary  at  the  time,"  said  Julie,  half 
smiling.  "But  since —  No,  I  don't  feel  that  she  is  ap- 
peased." 

"Of  course  not.     Affronted,  more  likely." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Duchess  was  looking  at 
Julie,  but  her  thoughts  were  far  away.  And  presently 
she  broke  out,  with  the  etourderie  that  became  her: 

"I  wish  I  understood  it  myself,  Julie.  I  know  you 
like  him." 

"Immensely.     But — we  should  fight!" 

Miss  Le  Breton  looked  up  with  animation. 

"Oh,  that's  not  a  reason,"  said  the  Duchess,  rather 
annoyed. 

"  It's  the  reason.  I  don't  know — there  is  something  of 
iron  in  Mr.  Delafield;"  and  Julie  emphasized  the  words 
with  a  shrug  which  was  almost  a  shiver.  "And  as  I'm 
not  in  love  with  him,  I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"That's  the  best  way  of  being  in  love,"  cried  the 
Duchess.  "And  then,  Julie" — she  paused,  and  at  last 
added,  naively,  as  she  laid  her  little  hands  on  her  friend's 
knee — "haven't  you  got  any  ambitions?" 

"Plenty.     Oh,  I  should  like  very  well  to  play  the 

no 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

duchess,  with  you  to  instruct  me,"  said  Juhe,  caressing 
the  hands.  "But  I  must  choose  my  duke.  And  till 
the  right  one  appears,  I  prefer  my  own  wild  ways." 

"Afraid  of  Jacob  Delafield?  How  odd!"  said  the 
Duchess,  with  her  chin  on  her  hands. 

"It  may  be  odd  to  you,"  said  Julie,  with  vivacity. 
"In  reality,  it's  not  in  the  least  odd.  There's  the  same 
quality  in  him  that  there  is  in  Lady  Henry — something 
that  beats  you  down,"  she  added,  under  her  breath. 
"There,  that's  enough  about  Mr.  Delafield  —  quite 
enough." 

And,  rising,  Julie  threw  up  her  arms  and  clasped  her 
hands  above  her  head.  The  gesture  was  all  strength 
and  will,  like  the  stretching  of  a  sea-bird's  wings. 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  had  begun 
to  waver. 

"Julie,  I  heard  such  an  odd  piece  of  news  last  night." 

Julie  turned. 

"You  remember  the  questions  you  asked  me  about 
Aileen  Moffatt?" 

"Perfectly." 

"  Well,  I  saw  a  man  last  night  who  had  just  come  home 
from  Simla.  He  saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  he  says 
that  she  and  her  mother  were  adored  in  India.  They 
were  thought  so  quaint  and  sweet — unlike  other  people 
— and  the  girl  so  lovely,  in  a  sort  of  gossamer  way.  And 
who  do  you  think  was  always  about  with  them — at 
Peshawar  first,  and  then  at  Simla — so  that  everybody 
talked?  Captain  Warkworth!  My  man  believed  there 
was  an  understanding  between  them." 

Julie  had  begun  to  fill  the  flower-glasses  with  water 
and  unpack  the  flower-basket.     Her  back  was  towards 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  Duchess.  After  a  moment  she  rephed,  her  hands 
full  of  forced  narcissuses: 

"Well,  that  would  be  a  coiip  for  him." 

"I  should  think  so.  She  is  supposed  to  have  half  a 
million  in  coal-mines  alone,  besides  land.  Has  Captain 
Warkworth  ever  said  anything  to  you  about  them?" 

"No.     He  has  never  mentioned  them." 

The  Duchess  reflected,  her  eyes  still  on  Julie's  back. 

"Everybody  wants  money  nowadays.  And  the  sol- 
diers are  just  as  bad  as  anybody  else.  They  don't  look 
money,  as  the  City  men  do — that's  why  we  women  fall 
in  love  with  them — but  they  think  it,  all  the  same." 

Julie  made  no  reply.  The  Duchess  could  see  nothing 
of  her.  But  the  little  lady's  face  showed  the  flutter  of 
one  determined  to  venture  yet  a  little  farther  on  thin  ice. 

"Julie,  I've  done  everything  you've  asked  me.  I 
sent  a  card  for  the  20th  to  that  rather  dreadful  woman, 
Lady  Froswick.  I  was  very  clever  with  Freddie  about 
that  living;  and  I've  talked  to  Mr.  Montresor.  But, 
Julie,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  really  should  like  to  know  why 
you're  so  keen  about  it?" 

The  Duchess's  cheeks  were  by  now  one  flush.  She  had 
a  romantic  affection  for  Julie,  and  would  not  have  of- 
fended her  for  the  world. 

Julie  turned  round.  She  was  always  pale,  and  the 
Duchess  saw  nothing  unusual. 

"Am  I  so  keen?" 

"  Julie,  you  have  done  everything  in  the  world  for  this 
man  since  he  came  home." 

"Well,  he  interested  me,"  said  Julie,  stepping  back  to 
look  at  the  effect  of  one  of  the  vases.  "The  first  even- 
ing he  was  here,  he  saved  me  from  Lady  Henry — twice, 

112 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

He's  alone  in  the  world,  too,  which  attracts  me.  You 
see,  I  happen  to  know  what  it's  like.  An  only  son,  and 
an  orphan,  and  no  family  interest  to  push  him — " 

"So  you  thought  you'd  push  him?  Oh,  Julie,  you're 
a  darling  —  but  you're  rather  a  wire-puller,  aren't 
you?" 

Julie  smiled  faintly. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  hke  to  feel,  sometimes,  that  I  have  a 
little  power.     I  haven't  much  else." 

The  Duchess  seized  one  of  her  hands  and  pressed  it  to 
her  cheek. 

"You  have  power,  because  every  one  loves  and  ad- 
mires you.  As  for  me,  I  would  cut  myself  in  little  bits 
to  please  you.  .  .  .  Well,  I  only  hope,  when  he's  married 
his  heiress,  if  he  does  marry  her,  they'll  remember  what 
they  owe  to  you." 

Did  she  feel  the  hand  lying  in  her  own  shake?  At 
any  rate,  it  was  brusquely  withdrawn,  and  Julie  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  table  to  fetch  some  more  flowers. 

"I  don't  want  any  gratitude,"  she  said,  abruptly, 
"from  any  one.  Well,  now,  Evelyn,  you  understand 
about  the  bazaar?     I  wish  I  could,  but  I  can't." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  Julie!"  The  Duchess  rose  im- 
pulsively, and  threw  herself  into  a  chair  beside  the  table 
where  she  could  watch  the  face  and  miovements  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Le  Breton.  "Julie,  I  want  so  much  to  talk  to 
you — about  business.  You're  not  to  be  offended.  Julie, 
if  you  leave  Lady  Henry,  how  will  you  manage?" 

"How  shall  I  live,  you  mean?"  said  Julie,  smiling  at 
the  euphemism  in  which  this  little  person,  for  whom  ex- 
istence had  rained  gold  and  flowers  since  her  cradle,  had 
enwrapped  the  hard  facts  of  bread-and-butter — facts 

8  113 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  which  she  was  so  Httle  acquainted  that  she  ap- 
proached them  with  a  certain  dehcate  mystery. 

"You  must  have  some  money,  you  know,  Juhe,"  said 
the  Duchess,  timidly,  her  upraised  face  and  Paris  hat 
well  matched  by  the  gay  poinsettias,  the  delicate  eucharis 
and  arums  with  which  the  table  was  now  covered. 

"I  shall  earn  some,"  said  Julie,  quietly. 

"Oh,  but,  Julie,  you  can't  be  bothered  with  any  other 
tiresome  old  lady!" 

"No.  I  should  keep  my  freedom.  But  Dr.  Mer- 
edith has  offered  me  work,  and  got  me  a  promise  of 
more." 

The  Duchess  opened  her  eyes. 

"Writing!  Well,  of  course,  we  all  know  you  can  do 
anything  you  want  to  do.  And  you  won't  let  anybody 
help  you  at  all?" 

"I  won't  let  anybody  give  me  money,  if  that's  what 
you  mean,"  said  Julie,  smiling.  But  it  was  a  smile 
without  accent,  without  gayety. 

The  Duchess,  watching  her,  said  to  herself,  "Since  I 
came  in  she  is  changed — quite  changed." 

"Julie,  you're  horribly  proud!" 

Julie's  face  contracted  a  little. 

"How  much  'power'  should  I  have  left,  do  you  think 
— how  much  self-respect — if  I  took  money  from  my 
friends?" 

"Well,  not  money,  perhaps.  But,  Julie,  you  know  all 
about  Freddie's  London  property.  It's  abominable 
how  much  he  has.  There  are  always  a  few  houses  he 
keeps  in  his  own  hands.  If  Lady  Henry  does  quarrel 
with  you,  and  we  could  lend  you  a  little  house — for  a 
time — wouldn't  you  take  it,  Julie?" 

114 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Her  voice  had  the  coaxing  inflections  of  a  child. 
Juhe  hesitated. 

"Only  if  the  Duke  himself  offered  it,"  she  said,  finally, 
with  a  brusque  stiffening  of  her  whole  attitude. 

The  Duchess  flushed  and  stood  up. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,"  she  said,  but  no  longer  in 
the  same  voice.  "Remember,  I  have  your  promise. 
Good-bye,  Julie,  you  darling!  .  .  .  Oh,  by-the-way,  what 
an  idiot  I  am!  Here  am  I  forgetting  the  chief  thing  I 
came  about.  Will  you  come  with  me  to  Lady  Hubert 
to-night?  Do!  Freddie's  away,  and  I  hate  going  by 
myself." 

"To  Lady  Hubert's?"  said  Julie,  starting  a  little.  "I 
wonder  what  Lady  Henry  would  say?" 

"Tell  her  Jacob  won't  be  there,"  said  the  Duchess, 
laughing.     "Then  she  won't  make  any  difficulties." 

"Shall  I  go  and  ask  her?" 

"Gracious!  let  me  get  out  of  the  house  first.  Give 
her  a  message  from  me  that  I  will  come  and  see  her 
to-morrow  morning.  We've  got  to  make  it  up,  Freddie 
says;  so  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  better.  Say  all  the 
civil  things  you  can  to  her  about  to-night,  and  wire 
me  this  afternoon.  If  all's  well,  I  come  for  you  at 
eleven." 

The  Duchess  rustled  away.  Julie  was  left  standing 
by  the  table,  alone.  Her  face  was  very  still,  but  her 
eyes  shone,  her  teeth  pressed  her  lip.  Unconsciously 
her  hand  closed  upon  a  delicate  blossom  of  eucharis  and 
crushed  it. 

"I'll  go,"  she  said,  to  herself.     "Yes,  I'll  go." 

Her  letter  of  the  morning,  as  it  happened,  had  in- 
cluded thie  following  sisntences; 

115 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  think  to-night  I  must  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 
Hubert  Delafields',  though  I  own  that  neither  the  house 
nor  the  son  of  the  house  is  very  much  to  my  liking.  But 
I  hear  that  he  has  gone  back  to  the  country.  And  there 
are  a  few  people  who  frequent  Lady  Hubert,  who  might 
just  now  be  of  use." 

Lady  Henry  gave  her  consent  that  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton  should  accompany  the  Duchess  to  Lady  Hubert's 
party  almost  with  effusion.  "It  will  be  very  dull,"  she 
said.  "My  sister-in-law  makes  a  desert  and  calls  it 
society.  But  if  you  want  to  go,  go.  As  to  Evelyn 
Crowborough,  I  am  engaged  to  my  dentist  to-morrow 
morning." 

When  at  night  this  message  was  reported  to  the 
Duchess,  as  she  and  Julie  were  on  their  way  to  Rutland 
Gate,  she  laughed. 

"How  much  leek  shall  I  have  to  swallow?  What's 
to-morrow?  Wednesday.  Hm — cards  in  the  afternoon ; 
in  the  evening  I  appear,  sit  on  a  stool  at  Lady  Henry's 
feet,  and  look  at  you  through  my  glasses  as  though  I 
had  never  seen  you  before.  On  Thursday  I  leave  a 
French  book;  on  Friday  I  send  the  baby  to  see  her. 
Goodness,  what  a  time  it  takes!"  said  the  Duchess,  rais- 
ing her  very  white  and  very  small  shoulders.  "Well, 
for  my  life,  I  mustn't  fail  to-morrow  night." 

At  Lady  Hubert's  they  found  a  very  tolerable,  not  to 
say  Hvely,  gathering,  which  quite  belied  Lady  Henry's 
slanders.  There  was  not  the  same  conscious  brilHance, 
the  same  thrill  in  the  air,  as  pertained  to  the  gather- 
ings in  Bruton  Street.  But  there  was  a  more  solid  social 
comfort,  such  as  befits  people  untroubled  by  the  cer- 
tainty that  th^  world  is  looking  on.     The  guests  of  Bru- 

ii6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ton  Street  laughed,  as  well-bred  people  should,  at  the 
estimation  in  which  Lady  Henry's  salon  was  held,  by 
those  especially  who  did  not  belong  to  it.  Still,  the  mere 
knowledge  of  this  outside  estimate  kept  up  a  certain 
tension.  At  Lady  Hubert's  there  was  no  tension,  and 
the  agreeable  nobodies  who  found  their  way  in  were 
not  made  to  blush  for  the  agreeable  nothings  of  their 
conversation. 

Lady  Hubert  herself  made  for  ease — partly,  no  doubt, 
for  stupidity.  She  was  fair,  sleepy,  and  substantial. 
Her  husband  had  spent  her  fortune,  and  ruffled  all  the 
temper  she  had.  The  Hubert  Delafields  were  now, 
however,  better  off  than  they  had  been — investments 
had  recovered  —  and  Lady  Hubert's  temper  was  once 
more  placid,  as  Providence  had  meant  it  to  be.  During 
the  coming  season  it  was  her  firm  intention  to  marry  her 
daughter,  who  now  stood  beside  her  as  she  received  her 
guests — a  blonde,  sweet-featured  girl,  given,  however,  so 
it  was  said,  to  good  works,  and  not  at  all  inclined  to 
trouble  herself  overmuch  about  a  husband. 

The  rooms  Vv^ere  fairly  full ;  and  the  entry  of  the  Duch- 
ess and  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  was  one  of  the  incidents 
of  the  evening,  and  visibly  quickened  the  pulses  of  the 
assembly.  The  little  Dresden-china  Duchess,  with  her 
clothes,  her  jewels,  and  her  smiles,  had  been,  since  her 
marriage,  one  of  the  chief  favorites  of  fashion.  She  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  depths  of  the  country,  and  mar- 
ried at  eighteen.  After  six  years  she  was  not  in  the 
least  tired  of  her  popularity  or  its  penalties.  All  the  life 
in  her  dainty  person,  her  glancing  eyes,  and  small,  smil- 
ing lips  rose,  as  it  were,  to  meet  the  stir  that  she  evoked. 
She  vaguely  saw  herself  as  Titania,  and  played  the  part 

117 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  childish  glee.  And  like  Titania,  as  she  had  more 
than  once  ruefully  reflected,  she  was  liable  to  be  chidden 
by  her  lord. 

But  the  Duke  was  on  this  particular  evening  debating 
high  subjects  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  the  Duchess 
was  amusing  herself.  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,  who  arrived  not 
long  after  his  goddaughter,  found  her  the  centre  first  of  a 
body-guard  of  cousins,  including  among  them  apparent- 
ly a  great  many  handsome  young  men,  and  then  of  a 
small  crowd,  whose  vaguely  smiling  faces  reflected  the 
pleasure  that  was  to  be  got,  even  at  a  distance,  out  of 
her  young  and  merry  beauty. 

Julie  Le  Breton  was  not  with  her.  But  in  the  next 
room  Sir  Wilfrid  soon  perceived  the  form  and  face  which, 
in  their  own  way,  exacted  quite  as  much  attention  from 
the  world  as  those  of  the  Duchess.  She  was  talking 
with  many  people,  and,  as  usual,  he  could  not  help 
watching  her.  Never  yet  had  he  seen  her  wide,  black 
eyes  more  vivid  than  they  were  to-night.  Now,  as  on 
his  first  sight  of  her,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  call 
them  beautiful.  Yet  beautiful  they  were,  by  every 
canon  of  form  and  color.  No  doubt  it  was  something  in 
their  expression  that  offended  his  own  well-drilled  in- 
stincts. 

He  found  himself  thinking  suspicious  thoughts  about 
most  of  the  conversations  in  which  he  saw  her  engaged. 
Why  was  she  bestowing  those  careful  smiles  on  that  in- 
tolerable woman,  Lady  Froswick?  And  what  an  ac- 
quaintance she  seemed  to  have  among  these  elderly 
soldiers,  who  might  at  all  times  be  reckoned  on  at  Lady 
Hubert's  parties !  One  gray-haired  veteran  after  another 
recalled  himself  to  her  attention,  got  his  few  minutes 

ii8 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  her,  and  passed  on  smiling.  Certain  high  officials, 
too,  were  no  less  friendly.  Her  court,  it  seemed  to  him, 
was  mainly  composed  of  the  middle-aged;  to-night,  at 
any  rate,  she  left  the  young  to  the  Duchess.  And  it  was 
on  the  whole  a  court  of  men.  The  women,  as  he  now 
perceived,  were  a  trifle  more  reserved.  There  was  not, 
indeed,  a  trace  of  exclusion.  They  were  glad  to  see  her; 
glad,  he  thought,  to  be  noticed  by  her.  But  they  did 
not  yield  themselves — or  so  he  fancied — with  the  same 
wholeness  as  their  husbands. 

"How  old  is  she?"  he  asked  himself.  "About  nine- 
and-twenty?  .  .   .  Jacob's  age — or  a  trifle  older." 

After  a  time  he  lost  sight  of  her,  and  in  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  own  evening  forgot  her.  But  as  the  rooms 
were  beginning  to  thin  he  walked  through  them,  looking 
for  a  famous  collection  of  miniatures  that  belonged  to 
Lady  Hubert.  English  family  history  was  one  of  his 
hobbies,  and  he  was  far  better  acquainted  with  the  Dela- 
field  statesmen,  and  the  Delafield  beauties  of  the  past, 
than  were  any  of  their  modern  descendants.  Lady 
Hubert's  Cosways  and  Plimers  had  made  a  lively  im- 
pression upon  him  in  days  gone  by,  and  he  meant  to 
renew  acquaintance  with  them. 

But  they  had  been  moved  from  the  room  in  which  he 
remembered  them,  and  he  was  led  on  through  a  series  of 
drawing-rooms,  now  nearly  empty,  till  on  the  threshold 
of  the  last  he  paused  suddenly. 

A  lady  and  gentleman  rose  from  a  sofa  on  which 
they  had  been  sitting.  Captain  Warkworth  stood  still. 
Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  advanced  to  the  new-comer. 

"Is  it  very  late?"  she  said,  gathering  up  her  fan  and 
gloves.     "We  have  been  looking  at  Lady  Hubert's  min- 

119 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

iatures.  That  lady  with  the  muff  " — she  pointed  to  the 
case  which  occupied  a  conspicuous  position  in  the  room 
— "is  really  wonderful.  Can  you  tell  me,  Sir  Wilfrid, 
where  the  Duchess  is?" 

"No,  but  I  can  help  you  find  her,"  said  that  gentle- 
man, forgetting  the  miniatures  and  endeavoring  to  look 
at  neither  of  his  companions. 

"And  I  must  rush,"  said  Captain  Warkworth,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "  I  told  a  man  to  come  to  my  rooms 
at  twelve.     Heavens!" 

He  shook  hands  with  Miss  Le  Breton  and  hurried 
away. 

Sir  Wilfrid  and  Julie  moved  on  together.  That  he 
had  disturbed  a  most  intimate  and  critical  conversation 
was  somehow  borne  in  upon  Sir  Wilfrid.  But  kind  and 
even  romantic  as  was  the  old  man's  inmost  nature,  his 
feelings  were  not  friendly. 

"  How  does  the  biography  get  on?"  he  asked  his  com- 
panion, with  a  smile. 

A  bright  flush  appeared  in  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton's 
cheek. 

"I  think  Lady  Henry  has  dropped  it." 

"Ah,  well,  I  don't  imagine  she  will  regret  it,"  he  said, 
dryly. 

She  made  no  reply.  He  mentally  accused  himself  for 
a  brute,  and  then  shook  off  the  charge.  Surely  a  few 
pin-pricks  were  her  desert !  That  she  should  defend  her 
own  secrets  was,  as  Delafield  had  said,  legitimate  enough. 
But  when  a  man  offers  you  his  services,  you  should  not 
befool  him  beyond  a  certain  point. 

She  must  be  aware  of  what  he  was  thinking.  He 
glanced  at  her  curiously;  at  the  stately  dress  gleaming 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  jet,  which  no  longer  affected  anything  of  the  girl;  at 
the  fine  but  old-fashioned  necklace  of  pearls  and  dia- 
monds— no  doubt  her  mother's — which  clasped  her  sin- 
gularly slender  throat.  At  any  rate,  she  showed  noth- 
ing. She  began  to  talk  again  of  the  Delafield  miniatures, 
using  her  fan  the  while  with  graceful  deliberation;  and 
presently  they  found  the  Duchess. 

"Is  she  an  adventuress,  or  is  she  not?"  thought  Bury, 
as  his  hansom  carried  him  away  from  Rutland  Gate. 
"  If  she  marries  Jacob,  it  will  be  a  queer  business." 


VIII 

MEANWHILE  the  Duchess  had  dropped  JuHe  Le 
Breton  at  Lady  Henry's  door.  JuHe  groped  her 
way  up-stairs  through  the  sleeping  house.  She  found 
her  room  in  darkness,  and  she  turned  on  no  hght.  There 
was  still  a  last  glimmer  of  fire,  and  she  sank  down  by  it, 
her  long  arms  clasped  round  her  knees,  her  head  thrown 
back  as  though  she  listened  still  to  words  in  her  ears. 

"  Oh,  such  a  child!  Such  a  dear,  simple-minded  child! 
Report  engaged  her  to  at  least  ten  different  people  at 
Simla.  She  had  a  crowd  of  cavaliers  there — I  was  one 
of  them.  The  whole  place  adored  her.  She  is  a  very 
rare  little  creature,  but  well  looked  after,  I  can  tell  you 
— a  long  array  of  guardians  in  the  background." 

How  was  it  possible  not  to  trust  that  aspect  and  that 
smile?  Her  mind  travelled  back  to  the  autumn  days 
when  she  had  seen  them  first;  reviewed  the  steps,  so 
little  noticed  at  first,  so  rapid  lately  and  full  of  fate,  by 
which  she  had  come  into  this  bondage  wherein  she  stood. 
She  saw  the  first  appearance  of  the  young  soldier  in 
Lady  Henry's  drawing-room;  her  first  conversation  with 
him;  and  all  the  subtle  development  of  that  singular 
relation  between  them,  into  which  so  many  elements  had 
entered.  The  flattering  sense  of  social  power  imphed 
both  in  the  homage  of  this  young  and  successful  man, 
and  in  the  very  services  that  she,  on  her  side,  was  able  to 

122 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

render  him;  impulsive  gratitude  for  that  homage,  at  a 
time  when  her  very  soul  was  smarting  under  Lady 
Henry's  contemptuous  hostility;  and  then  the  sweet  ad- 
vances of  a  "friendship"  that  was  to  unite  them  in  a 
bond,  secret  and  unique,  a  bond  that  took  no  account 
of  the  commonplaces  of  love  and  marriage,  the  link  of 
equal  and  kindred  souls  in  a  common  struggle  with  hard 
and  sordid  circumstance. 

"I  have  neither  family  nor  powerful  friends,"  he  had 
written  to  her  a  few  weeks  after  their  first  meeting;  "  all 
that  I  have  won,  I  have  won  for  myself.  Nobody  ever 
made  'interest'  for  me  but  you.  You,  too,  are  alone 
in  the  world.  You,  too,  have  to  struggle  for  yourself. 
Let  us  unite  our  forces- — cheer  each  other,  care  for  each 
other — and  keep  our  friendship  a  sacred  secret  from  the 
world  that  would  misunderstand  it.  I  will  not  fail  you. 
I  will  give  you  all  my  confidence;  and  I  will  try  and 
understand  that  noble,  wounded  heart  of  yours,  with  its 
memories,  and  all  those  singular  prides  and  isolations 
that  have  been  imposed  on  it  by  circumstance.  I  will 
not  say,  let  me  be  your  brother;  there  is  something 
banal  in  that;  'friend'  is  good  enough  for  us  both;  and 
there  is  between  us  a  community  of  intellectual  and 
spiritual  interest  which  will  enable  us  to  add  new  mean- 
ing even  to  that  sacred  word.  I  will  write  to  you  every 
day ;  you  shall  know  all  that  happens  to  me ;  and  what- 
ever grateful  devotion  can  do  to  make  your  life  smoother 
shall  be  done." 

Five  months  ago  was  it,  that  that  letter  was  writ- 
ten? 

Its  remembered  phrases  already  rang  bitterly  in  an 
aching  heart.     Since  it  reached  her,  she  had  put  out 

123 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

all  her  powers  as  a  woman,  all  her  influence  as  an  in- 
telligence, in  the  service  of  the  writer. 

And  now,  here  she  sat  in  the  dark,  tortured  by  a  pas- 
sion of  which  she  was  ashamed,  before  which  she  was 
beginning  to  stand  helpless  in  a  kind  of  terror.  The 
situation  was  developing,  and  she  found  herself  won- 
dering how  much  longer  she  would  be  able  to  control 
herself  or  it.  Very  miserably  conscious,  too,  was  she  all 
the  time  that  she  was  now  playing  for  a  reward  that  was 
secretly,  tacitly,  humiliatingly  denied  her.  How  could  a 
poor  man,  with  Harry  Warkworth's  ambitions,  think  for 
a  moment  of  marriage  with  a  woman  in  her  ambiguous 
and  dependent  position  ?  Her  common-sense  told  her  that 
the  very  notion  was  absurd.  And  yet,  since  the  Duchess's 
gossip  had  given  point  and  body  to  a  hundred  vague  sus- 
picions, she  was  no  longer  able  to  calm,  to  master  herself. 

Suddenly  a  thought  of  another  kind  occurred  to  her. 
It  added  to  her  smart  that  Sir  Wilfrid,  in  their  meeting 
at  Lady  Hubert's,  had  spoken  to  her  and  looked  at  her 
with  that  slight  touch  of  laughing  contempt.  There  had 
been  no  insincerity  in  that  emotion  with  which  she  had 
first  appealed  to  him  as  her  mother's  friend;  she  did 
truly  value  the  old  man's  good  opinion.  And  yet  she  had 
told  him  lies. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  little 
shiver.  The  story  about  the  biography  had  been  the 
invention  of  a  moment.  It  had  made  things  easy,  and 
it  had  a  small  foundation  in  the  fact  that  Lady  Henry 
had  talked  vaguely  of  using  the  letters  lent  her  by 
Captain  Warkworth  for  the  elucidation  —  perhaps  in  a 
Nineteenth  Century  article — of  certain  passages  in  her 
husband's  Indian  career. 

124 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Jacob  Delafield,  too.  There  also  it  was  no  less  clear 
to  her  than  to  Sir  Wilfrid  that  she  had  "overdone  it." 
It  was  true,  then,  what  Lady  Henry  said  of  her — that 
she  had  an  overmastering  tendency  to  intrigue — to  a 
perpetual  tampering  with  the  plain  fact? 

"Well,  it  is  the  way  in  which  such  people  as  I  defend 
themselves,"  she  said,  obstinately,  repeating  to  herself 
what  she  had  said  to  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury. 

And  then  she  set  against  it,  proudly,  that  disinterest- 
edness of  which,  as  she  vowed  to  herself,  no  one  but  she 
knew  the  facts.  It  was  true,  what  she  had  said  to  the 
Duchess  and  to  Sir  Wilfrid.  Plenty  of  people  would 
give  her  money,  would  make  her  life  comfortable,  with- 
out the  need  for  any  daily  slavery.  She  would  not  take 
it.  Jacob  Delafield  would  marry  her,  if  she  lifted  her 
finger;  and  she  would  not  Hft  it.  Dr.  Meredith  would 
marry  her,  and  she  had  said  him  nay.  She  hugged  the 
thought  of  her  own  unknown  and  unapplauded  integrity. 
It  comforted  her  pride.  It  drew  a  veil  over  that  wound- 
ing laughter  which  had  gleamed  for  a  moment  through 
those  long  lashes  of  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury. 

Last  of  all,  as  she  sank  into  her  restless  sleep,  came 
the  remembrance  that  she  was  still  under  Lady  Henry's 
roof.  In  the  silence  of  the  night  the  difficulties  of  her 
situation  pressed  upon  and  tormented  her.  What  was 
she  to  do?     Whom  was  she  to  trust? 

"Dixon,  how  is  Lady  Henry?" 

"Much  too  ill  to  come  down-stairs,  miss.  She's  very 
much  put  out;  in  fact,  miss  (the  maid  lowered  her  voice), 
you  hardly  dare  go  near  her.  But  she  says  herself  it 
would  be  absurd  to  attempt  it." 

125 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Has  Hatton  had  any  orders?" 

"Yes,  miss.  I've  just  told  him  what  her  ladyship 
wishes.  He's  to  tell  everybody  that  Lady  Henry's  very 
sorry,  and  hoped  up  to  the  last  moment  to  be  able  to 
come  down  as  usual." 

"Has  Lady  Henry  all  she  wants,  Dixon?  Have  you 
taken  her  the  evening  papers?" 

"Oh  yes,  miss.  But  if  you  go  in  to  her  much  her 
ladyship  says  you're  disturbing  her;  and  if  you  don't 
go,  why,  of  course,  everybody's  neglecting  her." 

"Do  you  think  I  may  go  and  say  good-night  to  her, 
Dixon?" 

The  maid  hesitated. 

"I'll  ask  her,  miss — I'll  certainly  ask  her." 

The  door  closed,  and  Julie  was  left  alone  in  the  great 
drawing-room  of  the  Bruton  Street  house.  It  had  been 
prepared  as  usual  for  the  Wednesday  -  evening  party. 
The  flowers  were  fresh;  the  chairs  had  been  arranged  as 
Lady  Henry  liked  to  have  them ;  the  parquet  floors  shone 
under  the  electric  light;  the  Gainsboroughs  seemed  to 
look  down  from  the  walls  with  a  gay  and  friendly  ex- 
pectancy. 

For  herself,  Julie  had  just  finished  her  solitary  dinner, 
still  buoyed  up  while  she  was  eating  it  by  the  hope  that 
Lady  Henry  would  be  able  to  come  down.  The  bitter 
winds  of  the  two  previous  days,  however,  had  much 
aggravated  her  chronic  rheumatism.  She  was  certainly 
ill  and  suffering;  but  Julie  had  known  her  make  such 
heroic  efforts  before  this  to  keep  her  Wednesdays  going 
that  not  till  Dixon  appeared  with  her  verdict  did  she 
give  up  hope. 

So  everybody  would  be  turned  away.     Julie  paced 

126 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  drawing-room  a  solitary  figure  amid  its  lights  and 
flowers — solitary  and  dejected.  In  a  couple  of  hours' 
time  all  her  particular  friends  would  come  to  the  door, 
and  it  would  be  shut  against  them.  "Of  course,  ex- 
pect me  to-night,"  had  been  the  concluding  words  of  her 
letter  of  the  morning.  Several  people  also  had  an- 
nounced themselves  for  this  evening  whom  it  was  ex- 
tremely desirable  she  should  see.  A  certain  eminent 
colonel,  professor  at  the  Staff  College,  was  being  freely 
named  in  the  papers  for  the  Mokembe  mission.  Never 
was  it  more  necessary  for  her  to  keep  all  the  threads 
of  her  influence  in  good  working  order.  And  these 
Wednesday  evenings  ofifered  her  the  occasions  when  she 
was  most  successful,  most  at  her  ease — especially  when- 
ever Lady  Henry  was  not  well  enough  to  leave  the 
comparatively  limited  sphere  of  the  back  drawing- 
room. 

Moreover,  the  gatherings  themselves  ministered  to  a 
veritable  craving  in  Julie  Le  Breton — the  craving  for 
society  and  conversation.  She  shared  it  with  Lady 
Henry,  but  in  her  it  was  even  more  deeply  rooted.  Lady 
Henry  had  ten  talents  in  the  Scriptural  sense — money, 
rank,  all  sorts  of  inherited  bonds  and  associations.  Julie 
Le  Breton  had  but  this  one.  Society  was  with  her  both 
an  instinct  and  an  art.  With  the  subtlest  and  most  in- 
telligent ambition  she  had  trained  and  improved  her 
natural  gift  for  it  during  the  last  few  years.  And  now, 
to  the  excitement  of  society  was  added  the  excitement 
of  a  new  and  tyrannous  feehng,  for  v/hich  society  was 
henceforth  a  mere  weapon  to  be  used. 

She  fumed  and  fretted  for  a  while  in  silence.  Every 
now  and  then  she  would  pause  in  front  of  one  of  the  great 

127 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

mirrors  of  the  room,  and  look  at  the  reflection  of  her  tall 
thinness  and  the  trailing  satin  of  her  gown. 

"The  girl  —  so  pretty,  in  a  gossamer  sort  of  way." 
The  words  echoed  in  her  mind,  and  vaguely,  beside  her 
own  image  in  the  glass,  there  rose  a  vision  of  girlhood — 
pale,  gold  hair,  pink  cheeks,  white  frock — and  she  turned 
away,  miserable,  from  that  conscious,  that  intellectual 
distinction  with  which,  in  general,  she  could  persuade 
herself  to  be  very  fairly  satisfied. 

Hutton,  the  butler,  came  in  to  look  at  the  fire. 

"Will  you  be  sitting  here  to-night,  miss?" 

"Oh  no,  Hutton.  I  shall  go  back  to  the  library.  I 
think  the  fire  in  my  own  room  is  out." 

"I  had  better  put  out  these  lights,  anyway,"  said  the 
man,  looking  round  the  brilliant  room. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Julie,  and  she  began  to  assist 
him  to  do  so. 

Suddenly  a  thought  occurred  to  her. 

"  Hutton!"  She  went  up  to  him  and  spoke  in  a  lower 
tone.  "If  the  Duchess  of  Crowborough  comes  to-night, 
I  should  very  much  like  to  see  her,  and  I  know  she  wants 
to  see  me.  Do  you  think  it  could  possibly  disturb  Lady 
Henry  if  you  were  to  show  her  into  the  library  for 
twenty  minutes?" 

The  man  considered. 

"  I  don't  think  there  could  be  anything  heard  up-stairs, 
miss.  I  should,  of  course,  warn  her  grace  that  her  lady- 
ship was  ill." 

"Well,  then,  Hutton,  please  ask  her  to  come  in,"  said 
Miss  Le  Breton,  hurriedly.  "And,  Hutton,  Dr.  Meredith 
and  Mr.  Montresor,  you  know  how  disappointed  they'll 
be  not  to  find  Lady  Henry  at  home?" 

128 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Yes,  miss.  They'll  want  to  know  how  her  ladyship 
is,  no  doubt.  I'll  tell  them  you're  in  the  library.  And 
Captain  Warkworth,  miss? — he's  never  missed  a  Wednes- 
day evening  for  weeks." 

"Oh,  well,  if  he  comes — you  must  judge  for  yourself, 
Hutton,"  said  Miss  Le  Breton,  occupying  herself  with 
the  electric  switches.  "I  should  like  to  tell  them  all — 
the  old  friends — how  Lady  Henry  is." 

The  butler's  face  was  respectful  discretion  itself. 

"Of  course,  miss.     And  shall  I  bring  tea  and  coffee?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Miss  Le  Breton,  hastily;  and  then,  after 
reflection,  "Well,  have  it  ready;  but  I  don't  suppose  any- 
body will  ask  for  it.     Is  there  a  good  fire  in  the  library?" 

"Oh  yes,  miss.  I  thought  you  would  be  coming  down 
there  again.  Shall  I  take  some  of  these  flowers  down? 
The  room  looks  rather  bare,  if  anybody's  coming  in." 

Julie  colored  a  little. 

"Well,  you  might — not  many.  And,  Hutton,  you're 
sure  we  can't  disturb  Lady  Henry?" 

Hutton's  expression  was  not  wholly  confident. 

"Her  ladyship's  very  quick  of  hearing,  miss.  But  I'll 
shut  those  doors  at  the  foot  of  the  back  stairs,  and  I'll 
ask  every  one  to  come  in  quietly." 

"Thank  you,  Hutton — thank  you.  That  '11  be  very 
good  of  you.     And,  Hutton — " 

"Yes,  miss."  The  man  paused  with  a  large  vase  of 
white  arums  in  his  hand. 

"You'll  say  a  word  to  Dixon,  won't  you?  If  any- 
body comes  in,  there'll  be  no  need  to  trouble  Lady  Henry 
about  it.     I  can  tell  her  to-morrow." 

"Very  good,  miss.  Dixon  will  be  down  to  her  supper 
presently." 

9  129 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  butler  departed.  Julie  was  left  alone  in  the  now 
darkened  room,  lighted  only  by  one  lamp  and  the  bright 
glow  of  the  fire.  She  caught  her  breath  —  suddenly 
struck  with  the  audacity  of  what  she  had  been  doing. 
Eight  or  ten  of  these  people  certainly  would  come  in — 
eight  or  ten  of  Lady  Henry's  "intimates."  If  Lady 
Henry  discovered  it  —  after  this  precarious  truce  be- 
tween them  had  just  been  patched  up! 

Julie  made  a  step  towards  the  door  as  though  to  recall 
the  butler,  then  stopped  herself.  The  thought  that  in 
an  hour's  time  Harry  Warkworth  might  be  within  a  few 
yards  of  her,  and  she  not  permitted  to  see  him,  worked 
intolerably  in  heart  and  brain,  dulling  the  shrewd  intelli- 
gence by  which  she  was  ordinarily  governed.  She  was 
conscious,  indeed,  of  some  profound  inner  change.  Life 
had  been  difficult  enough  before  the  Duchess  had  said 
those  few  words  to  her.     But  since! 

Suppose  he  had  deceived  her  at  Lady  Hubert's  party! 
Through  all  her  mounting  passion  her  acute  sense  of 
character  did  not  fail  her.  She  secretly  knew  that  it 
was  quite  possible  he  had  deceived  her.  But  the  knowl- 
edge merely  added  to  the  sense  of  danger  which,  in  this 
case,  was  one  of  the  elements  of  passion  itself. 

"He  must  have  money  —  of  course  he  must  have 
money,"  she  was  saying,  feverishly,  to  herself.  "But 
I'll  find  ways.  Why  should  he  marry  yet — for  years? 
It  would  be  only  hampering  him." 

Again  she  paused  before  the  mirrored  wall;  and  again 
imagination  evoked  upon  the  glass  the  same  white  and 
threatening  image — her  own  near  kinswoman — the  child 
of  her  mother's  sister!  How  strange!  Where  was  the 
little  gossamer  creature  now — in  what  safe  haven  of 

130 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

money  and  family  affection,  and  all  the  spoiling  that 
money  brings?  From  the  climbing  paths  of  her  own 
difficult  and  personal  struggle  Julie  Le  Breton  looked 
down  with  sore  contempt  on  such  a  degenerate  ease  of 
circumstance.  She  had  heard  it  said  that  the  mother 
and  daughter  were  lingering  abroad  for  a  time  on  their 
way  home  from  India.  Yet  v/as  the  girl  all  the  while 
pining  for  England,  thinking  not  of  her  garden,  her 
horse,  her  pets,  but  only  of  this  slim  young  soldier  who 
in  a  few  minutes,  perhaps,  would  knock  at  Lady  Henry's 
door,  in  quest  of  Aileen  Moffatt's  unknown,  unguessed- 
of  cousin?  These  thoughts  sent  wild  combative  thrills 
through  Julie's  pulses.  She  turned  to  one  of  the  old 
French  clocks.  How  much  longer  now — till  he  came? 
"Her  ladyship  would  like  to  see  you,  miss." 
The  voice  was  Dixon's,  and  Julie  turned  hurriedly, 
recalling  all  her  self-possession.  She  climbed  some  steep 
stairs,  still  unmodernized,  to  Lady  Henry's  floor.  That 
lady  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house,  so  as  to  be  out  of 
noise.  Her  room  was  an  old-fashioned  apartment,  fur- 
nished about  the  year  Queen  Victoria  came  to  the  throne, 
with  furniture,  chintzes,  and  carpet  of  the  most  ap- 
proved early  Victorian  pattern.  What  had  been  ugly 
then  was  dingy  now;  and  its  strong  mustress,  who  had 
known  so  well  how  to  assimilate  and  guard  the  fine 
decorations  and  noble  pictures  of  the  drawing-rooms, 
would  not  have  a  thing  in  it  touched.  "It  suits  me," 
she  would  say,  impatiently,  when  her  stout  sister-in-law 
pleaded  placidly  for  white  paint  and  bright  colors.  "If 
it's  ugly,  so  am  I." 

Fierce,  certainly,  and  forbidding  she  was  on  this  Feb- 
ruary evening.     She  lay  high  on  her  pillow,  tormented 

131 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

by  her  chronic  bronchitis  and  by  rheumatic  pain,  her 
brows  drawn  together,  her  vigorous  hands  clasped  before 
her  in  an  evident  tension,  as  though  she  only  restrained 
herself  with  difficulty  from  defying  maid,  doctor,  and  her 
own  sense  of  prudence. 

"Well,  you  have  dressed?"  she  said,  sharply,  as  Julie 
Le  Breton  entered  her  room. 

"I  did  not  get  your  message  till  I  had  finished  dinner. 
And  I  dressed  before  dinner." 

Lady  Henry  looked  her  up  and  down,  like  a  cat  ready 
to  pounce. 

"You  didn't  bring  me  those  letters  to  sign?" 

"No,  I  thought  you  were  not  fit  for  it." 

"  I  said  they  were  to  go  to-night.  Kindly  bring  them 
at  once." 

Julie  brought  them.  With  groans  and  flinchings  that 
she  could  not  repress.  Lady  Henry  read  and  signed  them. 
Then  she  demanded  to  be  read  to.  Julie  sat  down, 
trembling.  How  fast  the  hands  of  Lady  Henry's  clock 
were  moving  on! 

Mercifully,  Lady  Henry  was  already  somewhat  sleepy, 
partly  from  weakness,  partly  from  a  dose  of  bro- 
mide. 

"I  hear  nothing,"  she  said,  putting  out  an  impatient 
hand.  "You  should  raise  your  voice.  I  didn't  mean 
you  to  shout,  of  course.  Thank  you — that  '11  do.  Good- 
night. Tell  Hutton  to  keep  the  house  as  quiet  as  he  can. 
People  must  knock  and  ring,  I  suppose;  but  if  all  the 
doors  are  properly  shut  it  oughtn't  to  bother  me.  Are 
you  going  to  bed?" 

"I  shall  sit  up  a  little  to  write  some  letters.  But — I 
sha'n't  be  late." 

132 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Why  should  you  be  late?"  said  Lady  Henry,  tartly, 
as  she  turned  away. 

Julie  made  her  way  down-stairs  with  a  beating  heart. 
All  the  doors  were  carefully  shut  behind  her.  When  she 
reached  the  hall  it  was  already  half -past  ten  o'clock. 
She  hurried  to  the  library,  the  large  panelled  room  be- 
hind the  dining-room.  How  bright  Hutton  had  made  it 
look!.  Up  shot  her  spirits.  With  a  gay  and  dancing 
step  she  went  from  chair  to  chair,  arranging  everything 
instinctively  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. She  made  the  flowers  less  stiff;  she  put  on 
another  light;  she  drew  one  table  forward  and  pushed 
its  fellow  back  against  the  wall.  What  a  charming  old 
room,  after  all!  What  a  pity  Lady  Henry  so  seldom 
used  it!  It  was  panelled  in  dark  oak,  while  the  draw- 
ing-room was  white.  But  the  pictures,  of  which  there 
were  two  or  three,  looked  even  better  here  than 
up -stairs.  That  beautiful  Lawrence  —  a  "red  boy" 
in  gleaming  satin  —  that  pair  of  Hoppners,  fine  stud- 
ies in  blue,  why,  who  had  ever  seen  them  before  ? 
And  another  light  or  two  would  show  them  still  bet- 
ter. 

A  loud  knock  and  ring.  Julie  held  her  breath.  Ah! 
A  distant  voice  in  the  hall.  She  moved  to  the  fire,  and 
stood  quietly  reading  an  evening  paper. 

"Captain  Warkworth  would  be  glad  if  you  would  see 
him  for  a  few  minutes,  miss.  He  would  like  to  ask  you 
himself  about  her  ladyship." 

"Please  ask  him  to  come  in,  Hutton." 

Hutton  effaced  himself,  and  the  young  man  entered. 
Then  Julie  raised  her  voice. 

^33 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Remember,  please,  Hutton,  that  I  particularlywa,nt 
to  see  the  Duchess." 

Hutton  bowed  and  retired.  Warkworth  came  for- 
ward. 

"What  luck  to  find  you  like  this'" 

He  threw  her  one  look — Julie  knew  it  to  be  a  look  of 
scrutiny — and  then,  as  she  held  out  her  hand,  he  stooped 
and  kissed  it. 

"He  wants  to  know  that  my  suspicions  are  gone," 
she  thought.     "At  any  rate,  he  should  believe  it." 

"The  great  thing,"  she  said,  with  her  finger  to  her 
lip,  "is  that  Lady  Henry  should  hear  nothing." 

She  miOtioned  her  somewhat  puzzled  guest  to  a  seat 
on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and,  herself,  fell  into  another 
opposite.     A  wild  vivacity  was  in  her  face  and  manner. 

"Isn't  this  amusing?  Isn't  the  room  charming?  I 
think  I  should  receive  very  well  " — she  looked  round  her 
— "in  my  own  house." 

"You  would  receive  well  in  a  garret — a  stable,"  he 
said.     "  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this ?     Explain." 

"Lady  Henry  is  ill  and  is  gone  to  bed.  That  made 
her  very  cross — poor  Lady  Henry!  She  thinks  I,  too, 
am  in  bed.  But  you  see — you  forced  your  way  in — 
didn't  you?  —  to  inquire  with  greater  minuteness  after 
Lady  Henry's  health." 

She  bent  towards  him,  her  eyes  dancing. 

"  Of  course  I  did.  Will  there  presently  be  a  swanii  on 
my  heels,  all  possessed  with  a  similar  eagerness,  or — ?" 

He  drew  his  chair,  smiling,  a  little  closer  to  her.  She, 
on  the  contrary,  withdrew  hers. 

"There  will,  no  doubt,  be  six  or  seven,"  she  said, 
demurely,  "who  will  want  personal  news.     But  now, 

134 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

before  they  come" — her  tone  changed — "is  there  any- 
thing to  tell  me?" 

"Plenty,"  he  said,  drawing  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket. 
"Your  writ,  my  dear  lady,  runs  as  easily  in  the  City  as 
elsewhere."     And  he  held  up  an  envelope. 

She  flushed. 

"You  have  got  your  allotment?  But  I  knew  you 
would.     Lady  Froswick  promised." 

"And  a  large  allotment,  too,"  he  said,  joyously.  "I 
am  the  envy  of  all  my  friends.  Some  of  themx  have  got 
a  few  shares,  and  have  already  sold  them — grumbling, 
I  keep  mine  three  days  more  on  the  best  advice — the 
price  may  go  higher  yet.  But,  anyway,  there  " — he  shook 
the  envelope  —  "there  it  is  —  deliverance  from  debt — 
peace  of  mind  for  the  first  time  since  I  was  a  lad  at 
school — the  power  of  going,  properly  fitted  out  and 
equipped,  to  Africa — if  I  go — and  not  like  a  beggar — all 
in  that  bit  of  paper,  and  all  the  work  of — some  one  you 
and  I  know.  Fairy  godmother!  tell  me,  please,  how  to 
say  a  proper  thank  you." 

The  young  soldier  dropped  his  voice.  Those  blue 
eyes  which  had  done  him  excellent  service  in  many  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  globe  were  fixed  with  brilliance  on  his 
companion;  the  lines  of  a  full-lipped  mouth  quivered 
with  what  seemed  a  boyish  pleasure.  The  comfort  of 
money  relief  was  never  acknowledged  more  frankly  or 
more  handsomely. 

Julie  hurriedly  repressed  him.  Did  she  feel  instinc- 
tively that  there  are  thanks  which  it  sometimes  humili- 
ates a  man  to  remember,  lavishly  as  he  may  have  poured 
them  out  at  the  moment  —  thanks  which  may  easily 
count  in  the  long  run,  not  for,  but  against,  the  donor? 

135 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

She  rather  haughtily  asked  what  she  had  done  but  say 
a  chance  word  to  Lady  Froswick?  The  shares  had  to  be 
allotted  to  somebody.  She  was  glad,  of  course,  very 
glad,  if  he  were  relieved  from  anxiety.  .  .  . 

So  did  she  free  herself  and  him  from  a  burdensome 
gratitude;  and  they  passed  to  discussing  the  latest 
chances  of  the  Mokembe  appointment.  The  Staff-Col- 
lege Colonel  was  no  doubt  formidable ;  the  Commander- 
in-Chief,  who  had  hitherto  allowed  himself  to  be  much 
talked  to  on  the  subject  of  young  Warkworth's  claims 
by  several  men  in  high  place  —  General  M'Gill  among 
them — well  known  in  Lady  Henry's  drawing-room,  was 
perhaps  inclining  to  the  new  suggestion,  which  was 
strongly  supported  by  important  people  in  Egypt;  he 
had  one  or  two  recent  appointments  on  his  conscience 
not  quite  of  the  highest  order,  and  the  Staff-College  man, 
in  addition  to  a  fine  military  record,  was  virtue,  pover- 
ty, and  industry  embodied;  was  nobody's  cousin,  and 
would,  altogether,  produce  a  good  effect. 

Could  anything  more  be  done,  and  fresh  threads  set 
in  motion? 

They  bandied  names  a  little,  Julie  quite  as  subtly  and 
minutely  informed  as  the  man  with  regard  to  all  the 
sources  of  patronage.  New  devices,  fresh  modes  of  ap- 
proach revealed  themselves  to  the  woman's  quick  brain. 
Yet  she  did  not  chatter  about  them ;  still  less  parade  her 
own  resources.  Only,  in  talking  with  her,  dead  walls 
seemed  to  give  way ;  vistas  of  hope  and  possibility  opened 
in  the  very  heart  of  discouragement.  She  found  the 
right  word,  the  right  jest,  the  right  spur  to  invention  or 
effort;  while  all  the  time  she  was  caressing  and  appeas- 
ing her  companion's  self-love — placing  it  like  a  hot-house 

136 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

plant  in  an  atmosphere  of  expansion  and  content — with 
that  art  of  hers,  which,  for  the  ambitious  and  irritable 
man,  more  conscious  of  the  kicks  than  of  the  kisses  of 
fortune,  made  conversation  with  her  an  active  and  de- 
lightful pleasure. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  Warkworth  presently  de- 
clared; "but  after  I  have  been  talking  to  you  for  ten 
minutes  the  whole  world  seems  changed.  The  sky  was 
ink,  and  you  have  turned  it  rosy.  But  suppose  it  is  all 
mirage,  and  you  the  enchanter?" 

He  smiled  at  her — consciously,  superabundantly.  It 
was  not  easy  to  keep  quite  cool  with  Julie  Le  Breton; 
the  self-satisfaction  she  could  excite  in  the  man  she 
wished  to  please  recoiled  upon  the  woman  offering  the 
incense.  The  flattered  one  was  apt  to  be  foolishly  re- 
sponsive. 

"That  is  my  risk,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shrug.  "If 
I  make  you  confident,  and  nothing  comes  of  it — " 

"I  hope  I  shall  know  how  to  behave  myself,"  cried 
Warkworth.  "You  see,  you  hardly  understand — forgive 
me! — your  own  personal  effect.  When  people  are  face 
to  face  with  you,  they  want  to  please  you,  to  say  what 
will  please  you,  and  then  they  go  away,  and — " 

"Resolve  not  to  be  made  fools  of?"  she  said,  smiling. 
"But  isn't  that  the  whole  art — when  you're  guessing 
what  will  happen — to  be  able  to  strike  the  balance  of 
half  a  dozen  different  attractions?" 

"  Montresor  as  the  ocean,"  said  Warkworth,  musing, 
"with  half  a  dozen  different  forces  tugging  at  him? 
Well,  dear  lady,  be  the  moon  to  these  tides,  while  this 
humble  mortal  looks  on — and  hopes." 

He  bent  forward,  and  across  the  glowing  fire  their  eyes 
137 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

met.  She  looked  so  cool,  so  handsome,  so  little  yielding 
at  that  moment,  that,  in  addition  to  gratitude  and 
flattered  vanity,  Warkworth  was  suddenly  conscious  of 
a  new  stir  in  the  blood.  It  begat,  however,  instant  re- 
coil. Wariness! — let  that  be  the  word,  both  for  her  sake 
and  his  own.  What  had  he  to  reproach  himself  with  so 
far?  Nothing.  He  had  never  offered  himself  as  the 
lover,  as  the  possible  husband.  They  were  both  esprits 
faits — they  understood  each  other.  As  for  little  Aileen, 
well,  whatever  had  happened,  or  might  happen,  that  was 
not  his  secret  to  give  away.  And  a  woman  in  Julie  Le 
Breton's  position,  and  with  her  intelligence,  knows  very 
well  what  the  difficulties  of  her  case  are.  Poor  Julie!  If 
she  had  been  Lady  Henry,  what  a  career  she  would  have 
made  for  herself!  He  was  very  curious  as  to  her  birth 
and  antecedents,  of  which  he  knew  little  or  nothing;  with 
him  she  had  always  avoided  the  subject.  She  was  the 
child,  he  understood,  of  English  parents  who  had  lived 
abroad;  Lady  Henry  had  come  across  her  by  chance. 
But  there  must  be  something  in  her  past  to  account  for 
this  distinction,  this  ease  with  which  she  held  her  own 
in  what  passes  as  the  best  of  English  society. 

Julie  soon  found  herself  unwilling  to  meet  the  gaze 
fixed  upon  her.  She  flushed  a  little  and  began  to  talk 
of  other  things. 

"Everybody,  surely,  is  unusually  late.  It  will  be  an- 
noying, indeed,  if  the  Duchess  doesn't  come." 

"The  Duchess  is  a  delicious  creature,  but  not  for  me," 
said  Warkworth,  with  a  laugh.  "She  dislikes  me.  Ah, 
now  then  for  the  fray!" 

For  the  outer  bell  rang  loudly,  and  there  were  steps 
in  the  hall. 

138 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oh,  Julie" — in  swept  a  white  whirlwind  with  the 
smallest  white  satin  shoes  twinkUng  in  front  of  it — "  how 
clever  of  you — you  naughty  angel!  Aunt  Flora  in  bed 
— and  you  down  here!  And  I  who  came  prepared  for 
such  a  dose  of  humble-pie!  What  a  relief!  Oh,  how  do 
you  do?" 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  quite  another  tone,  as 
the  Duchess,  for  the  first  time  perceiving  the  young  offi- 
cer on  the  more  shaded  side  of  the  fireplace,  extended 
to  him  a  very  high  wrist  and  a  very  stiff  hand.  Then 
she  turned  again  to  Julie. 

"My  dear,  there's  a  small  mob  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Mon- 
tresor — and  General  Somebody — and  Jacob — and  Dr. 
Meredith  with  a  Frenchman.  Oh,  and  old  Lord  Lacking- 
ton,  and  Heaven  knows  who!  Hutton  told  m^e  I  might 
come  in,  so  I  promised  to  come  first  and  reconnoitre. 
But  what's  Hutton  to  do?  You  really  must  take  a  line 
The  carriages  are  driving  up  at  a  fine  rate." 

"I'll  go  and  speak  to  Hutton,"  said  Julie. 

And  she  hurried  into  the  hall. 


IX 


WHEN  Miss  Le  Breton  reached  the  hall,  a  footman 
was  at  the  outer  door  reciting  Lady  Henry's  ex- 
cuses as  each  fresh  carriage  drove  up ;  while  in  the  inner 
vestibule,  which  was  well  screened  from  the  view  of  the 
street,  was  a  group  of  men,  still  in  their  hats  and  over- 
coats, talking  and  laughing  in  subdued  voices. 

Julie  Le  Breton  came  forward.  The  hats  were  re- 
moved, and  the  tall,  stooping  form  of  Montresor  ad- 
vanced. 

"  Lady  Henry  is  so  sorry,"  said  Julie,  in  a  soft,  lowered 
voice.  "But  I  am  sure  she  would  like  me  to  give  you 
her  message  and  to  tell  you  how  she  is.  She  would  not 
like  her  old  friends  to  be  alarmed.  Would  you  come  in 
for  a  moment?  There  is  a  fire  in  the  library.  Mr. 
Delafield,  don't  you  think  that  would  be  best?  .  .  . 
Will  you  tell  Hutton  not  to  let  in  anybody  else?" 

She  looked  at  him  uncertainly,  as  though  appealing 
to  him,  as  a  relation  of  Lady  Henry's,  to  take  the  lead. 

"By  all  means,"  said  that  young  man,  after  perhaps 
a  moment's  hesitation,  and  throwing  off  his  coat. 

"Only  please  make  no  noise!"  said  Miss  Le  Breton, 
turning  to  the  group.  "Lady  Henry  might  be  dis- 
turbed." 

Every  one  came  in,  as  it  were,  on  tiptoe.  In  each  face 
a  sense  of  the  humor  of  the  situation  fought  with  the 

140 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

consciousness  of  its  dangers.  As  soon  as  Montresor  saw 
the  little  Duchess  by  the  fire,  he  threw  up  his  hands  in 
relief. 

"I  breathe  again,"  he  said,  greeting  her  with  effusion. 
"  Duchess,  where  thou  goest,  I  may  go.  But  I  feel  like  a 
boy  robbing  a  hen-roost.  Let  me  introduce  my  friend. 
General  Fergus.  Take  us  both,  pray,  under  your  pro- 
tection!" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  returned 
General  Fergus's  bow,  "you  are  both  so  magnificent 
that  no  one  would  dare  to  protect  you." 

For  they  were  both  in  uniform,  and  the  General  was 
resplendent  with  stars  and  medals. 

"We  have  been  dining  with  royalty,"  said  Montresor. 
"We  want  some  relaxation." 

He  put  on  his  eye-glasses,  looked  round  the  room,  and 
gently  rubbed  his  hands. 

"How  very  agreeable  this  is !  What  a  charming  room ! 
I  never  saw  it  before.  What  are  we  doing  here?  Is  it  a 
party?  Why  shouldn't  it  be?  Meredith,  have  you  in- 
troduced M.  du  Bartas  to  the  Duchess?     Ah,  I  see — " 

For  Julie  Le  Breton  was  already  conversing  with  the 
distinguished  Frenchman  wearing  the  rosette  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  in  his  button-hole,  who  had  followed 
Dr.  Meredith  into  the  room.  As  Montresor  spoke,  how- 
ever, she  came  forward,  and  in  a  French  which  was  a  joy 
to  the  ear,  she  presented  M.  du  Bartas,  a  tall,  well-built 
Norman  with  a  fair  mustache,  first  to  the  Duchess  and 
then  to  Lord  Lackington  and  Jacob. 

"The  director  of  the  French  Foreign  Office,"  said 
Montresor,  in  an  aside  to  the  Duchess.  "He  hates  us 
like  poison.     But  if  you  haven't  already  asked  him  to 

141 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

dinner — I  warned  you  last  week  he  was  coming — pray 
do  it  at  once!" 

Meanwhile  the  Frenchman,  his  introductions  over, 
looked  curiously  round  the  room,  studied  its  stately 
emptiness,  the  books  on  the  walls  under  a  trellis-work, 
faintly  gilt,  the  three  fine  pictures;  then  his  eyes  passed 
to  the  tall  and  slender  lady  who  had  addressed  him  in 
such  perfect  French,  and  to  the  little  Duchess  in  her 
flutter  of  lace  and  satin,  the  turn  of  her  small  neck,  and 
the  blaze  of  her  jewels.  "These  Englishwomen  overdo 
their  jewels,"  he  thought,  with  distaste.  "  But  they  over- 
do everything.  That  is  a  handsome  fellow,  by-the-way, 
who  was  with  la  petite  fee  when  we  arrived." 

And  his  shrewd,  small  eyes  travelled  from  Warkworth 
to  the  Duchess,  his  mind  the  while  instinctively  assum- 
ing some  hidden  relation  between  them. 

Meanwhile,  Montresor  was  elaborately  informing  him- 
self as  to  Lady  Henry. 

"This  is  the  first  time  for  twenty  years  that  I  have 
not  found  her  on  a  Wednesday  evening,"  he  said,  with 
a  sudden  touch  of  feeling  which  became  him.  "At  our 
age,  the  smallest  break  in  the  old  habit — " 

He  sighed,  and  then  quickly  threw  off  his  depression. 

"Nonsense!  Next  week  she  will  be  scolding  us  all 
with  double  energy.  Meanwhile,  may  we  sit  down,  mad- 
emoiselle? Ten  minutes?  And,  upon  my  word,  the 
very  thing  my  soul  was  longing  for — a  cup  of  coffee!" 

For  at  the  moment  Hutton  and  two  footmen  entered 
with  trays  containing  tea  and  coffee,  lemonade  and  cakes. 

"Shut  the  door,  Hutton,  please,''  Mademoiselle  Le 
Breton  implored,  and  the  door  was  shut  at  once. 

"We  mustn't^  mustn't  make  any  noise!"  she  said,  her 

142 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

finger  on  her  lip,  looking  first  at  Montresor  and  then  at 
Delafield.  The  group  laughed,  moved  their  spoons  soft- 
ly, and  once  more  lowered  their  voices. 

But  the  coffee  brought  a  spirit  of  festivity.  Chairs 
were  drawn  up.  The  blazing  fire  shone  out  upon  a 
semicircle  of  people  representing  just  those  elements  of 
mingled  intimacy  and  novelty  which  go  to  make  con- 
versation. And  in  five  minutes  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton 
was  leading  it  as  usual.  A  brilliant  French  book  had 
recently  appeared  dealing  with  certain  points  of  the 
Egyptian  question  in  a  manner  so  interesting,  supple, 
and  apparently  impartial  that  the  attention  of  Europe 
had  been  won.  Its  author  had  been  formerly  a  promi- 
nent official  of  the  French  Foreign  Office,  and  was  now 
somewhat  out  of  favor  with  his  countrymen.  Julie  put 
some  questions  about  him  to  M.  du  Bartas. 

The  Frenchman  feeling  himself  among  comrades  wor- 
thy of  his  steel,  and  secretly  pricked  by  the  presence 
of  an  English  cabinet  minister,  relinquished  the  half- 
disdainful  reserve  with  which  he  had  entered,  and  took 
pains.  He  drew  the  man  in  question,  en  silhouette,  with 
a  hostile  touch  so  sure,  an  irony  so  light,  that  his  success 
was  instant  and  great. 

Lord  Lackington  woke  up.  Handsome,  white-haired 
dreamer  that  he  was,  he  had  been  looking  into  the  fire, 
half -smiling,  more  occupied,  in  truth,  with  his  own 
thoughts  than  with  his  companions.  Delafield  had 
brought  him  in;  he  did  not  exactly  know  why  he  was 
there,  except  that  he  liked  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  and 
often  wondered  how  the  deuce  Lady  Henry  had  ever  dis- 
covered such  an  interesting  and  delightful  person  to  fill 
such  an  uncomfortable  position.     But  this  Frenchman 

143 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

challenged  and  excited  him.  He,  too,  began  to  talk 
French,  and  soon  the  whole  room  was  talking  it,  with  an 
advantage  to  Julie  Le  Breton  which  quickly  made  itself 
apparent.  In  English  she  was  a  link,  a  social  conjunc- 
tion; she  eased  all  difficulties,  she  pieced  all  threads. 
But  in  French  her  tongue  was  loosened,  though  never 
beyond  the  point  of  grace,  the  point  of  delicate  adjust- 
ment to  the  talkers  round  her. 

So  that  presently,  and  by  insensible  gradations,  she 
was  the  queen  of  the  room.  The  Duchess  in  ecstasy 
pinched  Jacob  Delafield's  wrist,  and  forgetting  all  that 
she  ought  to  have  remembered,  whispered,  rapturously, 
in  his  ear,  "Isn't  she  enchanting  —  Julie  —  to-night?" 
That  gentleman  made  no  answer.  The  Duchess,  re- 
membering, shrank  back,  and  spoke  no  more,  till  Jacob 
looked  round  upon  her  with  a  friendly  smile  which  set  her 
tongue  free  again. 

M.  du  Bartas,  meanwhile,  began  to  consider  this  lady 
in  black  with  more  and  more  attention.  The  talk  glided 
into  a  general  discussion  of  the  Egyptian  position. 
Those  were  the  days  before  Arabi,  when  elements  of 
danger  and  of  doubt  abounded,  and  none  knew  what  a 
month  might  bring  forth.  With  perfect  tact  Julie 
guided  the  conversation,  so  that  all  difficulties,  whether 
for  the  French  official  or  the  English  statesman,  were 
avoided  with  a  skill  that  no  one  realized  till  each  sep- 
arate rock  was  safely  passed.  Presently  Montresor 
looked  from  her  to  Du  Bartas  with  a  grin.  The  French- 
man's eyes  were  round  with  astonishment.  Julie  had 
been  saying  the  lightest  but  the  wisest  things;  she  had 
been  touching  incidents  and  personalities  known  only  to 
the  initiated  with  a  restrained  gayety  which  often  broke 

144 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

down  into  a  charming  shyness,  which  was  ready  to  be 
scared  away  in  a  moment  by  a  tone — too  serious  or  too 
polemical — which  jarred  with  the  general  key  of  the 
conversation,  which  never  imposed  itself,  and  was  like 
the  ripple  on  a  summer  sea.  But  the  summer  sea  has 
its  depths,  and  this  modest  gayety  was  the  mark  of  an 
intimate  and  first-hand  knowledge. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  thought  Montresor,  amused.    "P has 

been  writing  to  her,  the  little  minx.  He  seems  to  have 
been  telling  her  all  the  secrets.  I  think  I'll  stop  it. 
Even  she  mayn't  quite  understand  what  should  and 
shouldn't  be  said  before  this  gentleman." 

So  he  gave  the  conversation  a  turn,  and  Mademoiselle 
Le  Breton  took  the  hint  at  once.  She  called  others  to 
the  front — it  was  like  a  change  of  dancers  in  the  ballet — 
while  she  rested,  no  less  charming  as  a  listener  than  as  a 
talker,  her  black  eyes  turning  from  one  to  another  and 
radiant  with  the  animation  of  success. 

But  one  thing — at  last — she  had  forgotten.  She  had 
forgotten  to  impose  any  curb  upon  the  voices  round  her. 
The  Duchess  and  Lord  Lackington  were  sparring  like  a 
couple  of  children,  and  Montresor  broke  in  from  time  to 
time  with  his  loud  laugh  and  gruff  throat  voice.  Mer- 
edith, the  Frenchman,  Warkworth,  and  General  Fergus 
were  discussing  a  grand  review  which  had  been  held  the 
day  before.  Delafield  had  moved  round  to  the  back  of 
Julie's  chair,  and  she  was  talking  to  him,  v/hile  all  the 
time  her  eyes  were  on  General  Fergus  and  her  brain  was 
puzzling  as  to  how  she  was  to  secure  the  five  minutes' 
talk  with  him  she  wanted.  He  was  one  of  the  intimates 
of  the  Commander-in-Chief.  She  herself  had  suggested 
to  Montresor,  of  course  in  Lady  Henry's  name,  that  he 

lo  145 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

should  be  brought  to  Bruton  Street  some  Wednesday 
evening. 

Presently  there  was  a  little  shifting  of  groups.  Julie 
saw  that  Montresor  and  Captain  Warkworth  were  to- 
gether by  the  fireplace,  that  the  young  man  with  his 
hands  held  out  to  the  blaze  and  his  back  to  her  was  talk- 
ing eagerly,  while  Montresor,  looking  outward  into  the 
room,  his  great  black  head  bent  a  little  towards  his  com- 
panion, was  putting  sharp  little  questions  from  time  to 
time,  with  as  few  words  as  might  be.  Julie  understood 
that  an  important  conversation  was  going  on — that  Mon- 
tresor, whose  mind  various  friends  of  hers  had  been  en- 
deavoring to  make  up  for  him,  was  now  perhaps  en- 
gaged in  making  it  up  for  himself. 

With  a  quickened  pulse  she  turned  to  find  General 
Fergus  beside  her.  What  a  frank  and  soldierly  counte- 
nance!— a  little  roughly  cut,  with  a  strong  mouth  slightly 
underhung,  and  a  dogged  chin,  the  whole  lit  by  eyes 
that  were  the  chosen  homes  of  truth,  humanity,  and 
will.  Presently  she  discovered,  as  they  drew  their  chairs 
a  little  back  from  the  circle,  that  she,  too,  was  to  be  en- 
couraged to  talk  about  Warkworth.  The  General  was, 
of  course,  intimately  acquainted  with  his  professional 
record;  but  there  were  certain  additional  Indian  opin- 
ions— a  few  incidents  in  the  young  man's  earlier  career, 
including,  especially,  a  shooting  expedition  of  much  dar- 
ing in  the  very  district  to  which  the  important  Mokembe 
mission  was  now  to  be  addressed,  together  with  some 
quotations  from  private  letters  of  her  own,  or  Lady 
Henry's,  which  Julie,  with  her  usual  skill,  was  able  to 
slip  into  his  ear,  all  on  the  assumption,  delicately  main- 
tained, that  she  was  merely  talking  of  a  friend  of  Lady 

IU.6 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Henry's,  as  Lady  Henry  herself  would  have  talked,  to 
much  better  effect,  had  she  been  present. 

The  General  gave  her  a  grave  and  friendly  attention. 
Few  men  had  done  sterner  or  more  daring  feats  in  the 
field.  Yet  here  he  sat,  relaxed,  courteous,  kind,  trust- 
ing his  companions  simply,  as  it  was  his  instinct  to  trust 
all  women.  Julie's  heart  beat  fast.  What  an  exciting, 
what  an  important  evening!  .  .  . 

Suddenly  there  was  a  voice  in  her  ear. 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  we  ought  to  clear  out.  It 
must  be  close  on  midnight." 

She  looked  up,  startled,  to  see  Jacob  Delafield.  His 
expression — of  doubt  or  discomfort — recalled  her  at  once 
to  the  realities  of  her  own  situation. 

But  before  she  could  reply,  a  sound  struck  on  her  ear. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"What  was  that?"  she  said. 

A  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall. 

Julie  Le  Breton  caught  the  chair  behind  her,  and 
Delafield  saw  her  turn  pale.  But  before  she  or  he 
could  speak  again,  the  door  of  the  library  was  thrown 
open. 

"  Good  Heavens!"  said  Montresor,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"Lady  Henry!" 

M.  du  Bartas  lifted  astonished  eyes.  On  the  thresh- 
old of  the  room  stood  an  old  lady,  leaning  heavily  on 
two  sticks.  She  was  deathly  pale,  and  her  fierce  eyes 
blazed  upon  the  scene  before  her.  Within  the  bright, 
fire-lit  room  the  social  comedy  was  being  played  at  its 
best;  but  here  surely  was  Tragedy — or  Fate.  Who  was 
she?     What  did  it  mean? 

147 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  Duchess  rushed  to  her,  and  fell,  of  course,  upon 
the  one  thing  she  should  not  have  said. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Flora,  dear  Aunt  Flora!  But  we  thought 
you  were  too  ill  to  come  down!" 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  Lady  Henry,  putting  her  aside. 
"So  you,  and  this  lady" — she  pointed  a  shaking  finger 
at  Julie — "have  held  my  reception  for  me.  I  am  enor- 
mously obliged.  You  have  also"  —  she  looked  at  the 
coffee-cups — "provided  my  guests  with  refreshment.  I 
thank  you.  I  trust  my  servants  have  given  you  satis- 
faction. 

"  Gentlemen  " — she  turned  to  the  rest  of  the  company, 
who  stood  stupefied — "  I  fear  I  cannot  ask  you  to  remain 
with  me  longer.  The  hour  is  late,  and  I  am — as  you  see 
— indisposed.  But  I  trust,  on  some  future  occasion,  I 
may  have  the  honor — " 

She  looked  round  upon  them,  challenging  and  defying 
them  all. 

Montresor  went  up  to  her. 

"My  dear  old  friend,  let  me  introduce  to  you  M.  du 
Bartas,  of  the  French  Foreign  Office." 

At  this  appeal  to  her  English  hospitality  and  her  social 
chivalry.  Lady  Henry  looked  grimly  at  the  Frenchman. 

"M.  du  Bartas,  I  am  charmed  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. With  your  leave,  I  will  pursue  it  when  I 
am  better  able  to  profit  by  it.  To-morrow  I  will  write 
to  you  to  propose  another  meeting — should  my  health 
allow." 

"Enchant^,  madame,"  murmured  the  Frenchman, 
more  embarrassed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life. 
"  Permettez  -  moi  de  vous  faire  mes  plus  sinceres  ex- 
cuses." 

148 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Not  at  all,  monsieur,  you  owe  me  none." 

Montresor  again  approached  her. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "how  this  has 
happened — how  innocent  we  all  are — " 

"Another  time,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  with  a  most 
cutting  calm.  "As  I  said  before,  it  is  late.  If  I  had 
been  equal  to  entertaining  you  " — she  looked  round  upon 
them  all — "I  should  not  have  told  my  butler  to  make 
my  excuses.  As  it  is,  I  must  beg  you  to  allow  me  to 
bid  you  good -night.  Jacob,  will  you  kindly  get  the 
Duchess  her  cloak?  Good-night.  Good-night.  As  you 
see" — she  pointed  to  the  sticks  which  supported  her — 
"I  have  no  hands  to-night.  My  infirmities  have  need 
of  them." 

Montresor  approached  her  again,  in  real  and  deep  dis- 
tress. 

"Dear  Lady  Henry — " 

"Go!"  she  said,  under  her  breath,  looking  him  in  the 
eyes,  and  he  turned  and  went  without  a  word.  So  did 
the  Duchess,  whimpering,  her  hand  in  Delafield's  arm. 
As  she  passed  Julie,  who  stood  as  though  turned  to 
stone,  she  made  a  little  swaying  movement  towards 
her. 

"Dear  Julie!"  she  cried,  imploringly. 

But  Lady  Henry  turned. 

"You  will  have  every  opportunity  to-morrow,"  she 
said.  "As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  Miss  Le  Breton  will 
have  no  engagements." 

Lord  Lackington  quietly  said,  "Good -night.  Lady 
Henry,"  and,  without  offering  to  shake  hands,  walked 
past  her.  As  he  came  to  the  spot  where  Julie  Le  Breton 
stood,  that  lady  made  a  sudden,  impetuous  movemeat 

149 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

towards  him.  Strange  words  were  on  hei-  lips,  a  strange 
expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  must  help  me,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "It  is  my 
right!" 

Was  that  what  she  said?  Lord  Lackington  looked  at 
her  in  astonishment.  He  did  not  see  that  Lady  Henry 
was  watching  them  with  eagerness,  leaning  heavily  on 
her  sticks,  her  lips  parted  in  a  keen  expectancy. 

Then  Julie  withdrew. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.     Good-night." 

Lord  Lackington  hesitated.  His  face  took  a  puzzled 
expression.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  placed 
hers  in  it  mechanically. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  he  whispered,  kindly.  "Lady 
Henry  will  soon  be  herself  again.  Shall  I  tell  the  butler 
to  call  for  some  one — her  maid?" 

Julie  shook  her  head,  and  in  another  moment  he,  too, 
was  gone.  Dr.  Meredith  and  General  Fergus  stood  be- 
side her.  The  General  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and 
as  he  said  good-night  to  this  unlawful  hostess,  whose 
plight  he  understood  no  more  than  his  own,  his  mouth 
twitched  with  repressed  laughter.  But  Dr.  Meredith  did 
not  laugh.  He  pressed  Julie's  hand  in  both  of  his.  Look- 
ing behind  him,  he  saw  that  Jacob  Delafield,  who  had 
just  returned  from  the  hall,  was  endeavoring  to  appease 
Lady  Henry.     He  bent  towards  Julie. 

"Don't  deceive  yourself,"  he  said,  quickly,  in  a  low 
voice;  "this  is  the  end.  Remember  my  letter.  Let  me 
hear  to-morrow." 

As  Dr.  Meredith  left  the  room,  Julie  lifted  her  eyes. 
Only  Jacob  Delafield  and  Lady  Henry  were  left. 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Harry  Warkworth,  too,  was  gone — without  a  word? 
She  looked  round  her  piteously.  She  could  not  remem- 
ber that  he  had  spoken — that  he  had  bade  her  farewell. 
A  strange  pang  convulsed  her.  She  scarcely  heard  what 
Lady  Henry  was  saying  to  Jacob  Delafield.  Yet  the 
words  were  emphatic  enough. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  Jacob.  But  when  I  want  your 
advice  in  my  household  affairs,  I  will  ask  it.  You  and 
Evelyn  Crowborough  have  meddled  a  good  deal  too 
much  in  them  already.  Good-night.  Hutton  will  get 
you  a  cab." 

And  with  a  slight  but  imperious  gesture.  Lady  Hen- 
ry motioned  towards  the  door.  Jacob  hesitated,  then 
quietly  took  his  departure.  He  threw  Julie  a  look  of 
anxious  appeal  as  he  went  out.  But  she  did  not  see  it; 
her  troubled  gaze  was  fixed  on  Lady  Henry. 

That  lady  eyed  her  companion  with  composure, 
though  by  now  even  the  old  lips  were  wholly  blanched. 

"There  is  really  no  need  for  any  conversation  between 
us.  Miss  Le  Breton,"  said  the  familiar  voice.  "But  if 
there  were,  I  am  not  to-night,  as  you  see,  in  a  condition 
to  say  it.  So — when  you  came  up  to  say  good-night  to 
me — you  had  determined  on  this  adventure?  You  had 
been  good  enough,  I  see,  to  rearrange  my  room — to  give 
my  servants  your  orders." 

Julie  stood  stonily  erect.  She  made  her  dry  lips  an- 
swer as  best  they  could. 

"We  meant  no  harm,"  she  said,  coldly.  "It  all  came 
about  very  simply.  A  few  people  came  in  to  inquire 
after  you.  I  regret  they  should  have  stayed  talking  so 
long." 

151 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

'  Lady  Henry  smiled  in  contempt. 

"  You  hardly  show  your  usual  ability  by  these  remarks. 
The  room  you  stand  in  " — she  glanced  significantly  at 
the  lights  and  the  chairs  —  "gives  you  the  lie.  You 
had  planned  it  all  with  Hutton,  who  has  become  your 
tool,  before  you  came  to  me.  Don't  contradict.  It  dis- 
tresses me  to  hear  you.     Well,  now  we  part." 

"Of  course.  Perhaps  to-morrow  you  will  allow  me 
a  few  last  words?" 

"I  think  not.  This  will  cost  me  dear,"  said  Lady 
Henry,  her  white  lips  twitching.  "Say  them  now,  mad- 
emxoiselle." 

"You  are  suffering."  Julie  made  an  uncertain  step 
forward.     "You  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  What  was  your 
object  to-night?" 

"I  wished  to  see  the  Duchess — " 

"It  is  not  worth  while  to  prevaricate.  The  Duchess 
was  not  your  first  visitor." 

Julie  flushed. 

"Captain  Warkworth  arrived  first;  that  was  a  mere 
chance." 

' '  It  was  to  see  him  that  you  risked  the  whole  affair. 
You  have  used  my  house  for  your  own  intrigues." 

Julie  felt  herself  physically  wavering  under  the  lash 
of  these  sentences.  But  with  a  great  effort  she  walked 
towards  the  fireplace,  recovered  her  gloves  and  handker- 
chief, which  were  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  then  turned 
slowly  to  Lady  Henry. 

"I  have  done  nothing  in  your  service  that  I  am 
ashamed  of.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  borne  what  no  one 
else  would  have  borne.     I  have  devoted  myself  to  you 

152 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

and  your  interests,  and  you  have  trampled  upon  and 
tortured  me.  For  you  I  have  been  merely  a  servant, 
and  an  inferior — " 

Lady  Henry  nodded  grimly. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  interrupting,  "  I  was  not  able  to 
take  your  romantic  view  of  the  office  of  companion." 

"You  need  only  have  taken  a  human  view,"  said  Julie, 
in  a  voice  that  pierced;  "  I  was  alone,  poor — worse  than 
motherless.  You  might  have  done  what  you  would  with 
me.  A  little  indulgence,  and  I  should  have  been  your 
devoted  slave.  But  you  chose  to  humiliate  and  crush 
me;  and  in  return,  to  protect  myself,  I,  in  defending  my- 
self, have  been  led,  I  admit  it,  into  taking  liberties. 
There  is  no  way  out  of  it.  I  shall,  of  course,  leave  you 
to-morrow  morning." 

"Then  at  last  we  understand  each  other,"  said  Lady 
Henry,  with  a  laugh.     "Good-night,  Miss  Le  Breton." 

She  moved  heavily  on  her  sticks.  Julie  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass.  One  of  the  sticks  slipped  a  little  on  the 
polished  floor.  Julie,  with  a  cry,  ran  forward,  but  Lady 
Henry  fiercely  motioned  her  aside. 

"Don't  touch  me!     Don't  come  near  me!" 

She  paused  a  moment  to  recover  breath  and  balance. 
Then  she  resumed  her  difficult  walk.     Julie  followed  her. 

"Kindly  put  out  the  electric  lights,"  said  Lady  Henry, 
and  Julie  obeyed. 

They  entered  the  hall  in  which  one  little  light  was 
burning.  Lady  Henry,  with  great  difficulty,  and  pant- 
ing, began  to  pull  herself  up  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  do  let  me  help  you!"  said  Julie,  in  an  agony. 
"You  will  kill  yourself.     Let  me  at  least  call  Dixon." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Lady  Henry, 

153 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

indomitable,  though  tortured  by  weakness  and  rheu- 
matism. "Dixon  is  in  my  room,  where  I  bade  her  re- 
main. You  should  have  thought  of  the  consequences 
of  this  before  you  embarked  upon  it.  If  I  were  to  die  in 
mounting  these  stairs,  I  would  not  let  you  help  me." 

"  Oh!"  cried  Julie,  as  though  she  had  been  struck,  and 
hid  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

Slowly,  laboriously.  Lady  Henry  dragged  herself  from 
step  to  step.  As  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  staircase, 
and  could  therefore  be  no  longer  seen  from  below,  some 
one  softly  opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room  and  en- 
tered the  hall. 

Julie  looked  round  her,  startled.  She  saw  Jacob  Dela- 
field,  who  put  his  finger  to  his  lip. 

Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  she  bowed  her  head  on 
the  banister  of  the  stairs  against  which  she  was  leaning 
and  broke  into  stifled  sobs. 

Jacob  Delafield  came  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 
She  felt  his  own  tremble,  and  yet  its  grasp  was  firm  and 
supporting. 

"Courage!"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  "Try  not  to 
give  way.     You  will  want  all  your  fortitude." 

"Listen!"  She  gasped,  trying  vainly  to  control  her- 
self, and  they  both  listened  to  the  sounds  above  them  in 
the  dark  house — the  labored  breath,  the  slow,  painful 
step. 

"Oh,  she  wouldn't  let  me  help  her.  She  said  she 
would  rather  die.  Perhaps  I  have  killed  her.  And  I 
could — I  could — yes,  I  could  have  loved  her." 

She  was  in  an  anguish  of  feeling — of  sharp  and  pene- 
trating remorse. 

Jacob  Delafield  held  her  hand  close  in  his,  and  when 

154 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

at  last  the  sounds  had  died  in  the  distance  he  Hfted  it 
to  his  lips. 

"You  know  that  I  am  your  friend  and  servant,"  he 
said,  in  a  queer,  muffled  voice.  "  You  promised  I  should 
be." 

She  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand,  but  only  feebly. 
Neither  physically  nor  mentally  had  she  the  strength  to 
repulse  him.  If  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms,  she  could 
hardly  have  resisted.  But  he  did  not  attempt  to  conquer 
more  than  her  hand.  He  stood  beside  her,  letting  her 
feel  the  whole  mute,  impetuous  offer  of  his  manhood — 
thrown  at  her  feet  to  do  what  she  would  with. 

Presently,  when  once  more  she  moved  away,  he  said 
to  her,  in  a  whisper: 

"Go  to  the  Duchess  to-morrow  morning,  as  soon  as 
you  can  get  away.  She  told  me  to  say  that — Hutton  gave 
me  a  little  note  from  her.  Your  home  must  be  with 
her  till  we  can  all  settle  what  is  best.  You  know  very 
well  you  have  devoted  friends.  But  now  good-night. 
Try  to  sleep.  Evelyn  and  I  will  do  all  we  can  with  Lady 
Henry." 

Julie  drew  herself  out  of  his  hold.  "Tell  Evelyn  I  will 
come  to  see  her,  at  any  rate,  as  soon  as  I  can  put  my 
things  together.     Good-night." 

And  she,  too,  dragged  herself  up-stairs  sobbing,  start- 
ing at  every  shadow.  All  her  nerve  and  daring  were 
gone.  The  thought  that  she  must  spend  yet  another 
night  under  the  roof  of  this  old  woman  who  hated  her 
filled  her  with  terror.  When  she  reached  her  room  she 
locked  her  door  and  wept  for  hours  in  a  forlorn  and 
aching  misery. 


X 


THE  Duchess  was  in  her  morning-room.  On  the  rug, 
in  marked  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her  plaintive  eyes, 
brutal  contrast  with  the  endless  photographs  of  her  ba- 
bies and  women  friends  which  crowded  her  mantel-piece, 
stood  the  Duke,  much  out  of  temper.  He  was  a  power- 
fully built  man,  some  twenty  years  older  than  his  wife, 
with  a  dark  complexion,  enlivened  by  ruddy  cheeks  and 
prominent,  red  lips.  His  e^'^es  were  of  a  cold,  clear  gray; 
his  hair  very  black,  thick,  and  wiry.  An  extremely  vig- 
orous person,  more  than  adequately  aware  of  his  own 
importance,  tanned  and  seasoned  by  the  life  of  his  class, 
by  the  yachting,  hunting,  and  shooting  in  which  his  own 
existence  was  largely  spent,  slow  in  perception,  and  of  a 
sulky  temper — so  one  might  have  read  him  at  first  sight. 
But  these  impressions  only  took  you  a  certain  way  in 
judging  the  character  of  the  Duchess's  husband. 

As  to  the  sulkiness,  there  could  be  no  question  on  this 
particular  morning  —  though,  indeed,  his  ill-humor  de- 
served a  more  positive  and  energetic  name. 

"You  have  got  yourself  and  me,"  he  was  declaring, 
"into  a  most  disagreeable  and  unnecessary  scrape.  This 
letter  of  Lady  Henry's" — he  held  it  up — "is  one  of  the 
most  annoying  that  I  have  received  for  many  a  day. 
Lady  Henry  seems  to  me  perfectly  justified.  You  have 
been  behaving  in  a  quite  unwarrantable  way.     And  now 

156 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

you  tell  me  that  this  woman,  who  is  the  cause  of  it  all, 
of  whose  conduct  I  thoroughly  and  entirely  disapprove, 
is  coming  to  stay  here,  in  my  house,  whether  I  hke  it  or 
not,  and  you  expect  me  to  be  civil  to  her.  If  you  persist, 
I  shall  go  down  to  Brackmoor  till  she  is  pleased  to  depart. 
I  won't  countenance  the  thing  at  all,  and,  whatever  you 
may  do,  /  shall  apologize  to  Lady  Henry." 

"There's  nothing  to  apologize  for,"  cried  the  drooping 
Duchess,  plucking  up  a  little  spirit.  "Nobody  meant 
any  harm.  Why  shouldn't  the  old  friends  go  in  to  ask 
after  her?  Hutton — that  old  butler  that  has  been  with 
Aunt  Flora  for  twenty  years — asked  us  to  come  in." 

"Then  he  did  what  he  had  no  business  to  do,  and  he 
deserves  to  be  dismissed  at  a  day's  notice.  Why,  Lady 
Henry  tells  me  that  it  was  a  regular  party — that  the 
room  was  all  arranged  for  it  by  that  most  audacious 
young  woman — that  the  servants  were  ordered  about — 
that  it  lasted  till  nearly  midnight,  and  that  the  noise  you 
all  made  positively  woke  Lady  Henry  out  of  her  sleep. 
Really,  Evelyn,  that  you  should  have  been  mixed  up 
in  such  an  affair  is  more  unpalatable  to  me  than  I  can 
find  words  to  describe."  And  he  paced,  fuming,  up  and 
down  before  her. 

"  Anybody  else  than  Aunt  Flora  would  have  laughed," 
said  the  Duchess,  defiantly.  "And  I  declare,  Freddie,  I 
won't  be  scolded  in  such  a  tone.  Besides,  if  you  only 
knew — " 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  lips  quivering  with  a  secret  that,  once  out, 
would  perhaps  silence  him  at  once — would,  at  any  rate, 
as  children  do  when  they  give  a  shake  to  their  spillikins, 
open  up  a  number  of  new  chances  in  the  game. 

^57 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"If  I  only  knew  what?" 

The  Duchess  pulled  at  the  hair  of  the  little  spitz  on 
her  lap  without  replying. 

"What  is  there  to  know  that  I  don't  know?"  insisted 
the  Duke.  "Something  that  makes  the  matter  still 
worse,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  that  depends,"  said  the  Duchess,  reflectively. 
A  gleam  of  mischief  had  shpped  into  her  face,  though 
for  a  moment  the  tears  had  not  been  far  off. 

The  Duke  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Don't  keep  me  here  guessing  riddles  longer  than  you 
can  help,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "I  have  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  City  at  twelve,  and  I  want  to  discuss  with 
you  the  letter  that  must  be  written  to  Lady  Henry." 

"That's  your  affair,"  said  the  Duchess.  "I  haven't 
made  up  my  mind  yet  whether  I  mean  to  write  at  all. 
And  as  for  the  riddle,  Freddie,  you've  seen  Miss  Le 
Breton?" 

"Once.  I  thought  her  a  very  pretentious  person," 
said  the  Duke,  stiffly. 

"I  know — you  didn't  get  on.  But,  Freddie,  didn't 
she  remind  you  of  somebody?" 

The  Duchess  was  growing  excited.  Suddenly  she 
jumped  up ;  the  little  spitz  rolled  off  her  lap ;  she  ran  to 
her  husband  and  took  him  by  the  fronts  of  his  coat. 

"  Freddie,  you'll  be  very  much  astonished."  And  sud- 
denly releasing  him,  she  began  to  search  among  the  pho- 
tographs on  the  mantel-piece.  "  Freddie,  you  know  who 
that  is?"     She  held  up  a  picture. 

"  Of  course  I  know.  What  on  earth  has  that  got  to  do 
with  the  subject  we  have  been  discussing?" 

"Well,  it  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it,"  said  the 

158 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

Duchess,  slowly.  "That's  my  uncle,  George  Chantrey, 
isn't  it,  Lord  Lackington's  second  son,  who  married 
mamma's  sister?  Well — oh,  you  won't  like  it,  Freddie, 
but  you've  got  to  know — that's — JuHe's  uncle,  too!" 

"What  in  the  name  of  fortune  do  you  mean?"  said 
the  Duke,  staring  at  her. 

His  wife  again  caught  him  by  the  coat,  and,  so  im- 
prisoning him,  she  poured  out  her  story  very  fast,  very 
incoherently,  and  with  a  very  evident  uncertainty  as  to 
what  its  effect  might  be. 

And  indeed  the  effect  was  by  no  means  easy  to  deter- 
mine. The  Duke  was  first  incredulous,  then  bewildered 
by  the  very  mixed  facts  which  she  poured  out  upon  him. 
He  tried  to  cross-examine  her  en  route,  but  he  gained 
little  by  that;  she  only  shook  him  a  little,  insisting  the 
more  vehemently  on  telling  the  story  her  own  way.  At 
last  their  two  impatiences  had  nearly  come  to  a  dead- 
lock. But  the  Duke  managed  to  free  himself  physically, 
and  so  regained  a  little  freedom  of  mind. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,"  he  said,  as  he  resumed  his 
march  up  and  down — "upon  my  word!"  Then,  as  he 
stood  still  before  her,  "You  say  she  is  Marriott  Dai- 
ry mple's  daughter?" 

"And  Lord  Lackington's  granddaughter,"  said  the 
Duchess,  panting  a  little  from  her  exertions.  "And,  oh, 
what  a  blind  bat  you  were  not  to  see  it  at  once — from 
the  likeness!" 

"As  if  one  had  any  right  to  infer  such  a  thing  from  a 
likeness!"  said  the  Duke,  angrily.  "  Really,  Evelyn,  your 
talk  is  most — most  unbecoming.  It  seems  to  me  that 
Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  has  already  done  you  harm.  All 
that  you  have  told  me,  supposing  it  to  be  true — oh,  of 

159 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

course,  I  know  you  believe  it  to  be  true — only  makes  me  " 
— he  stiffened  his  back — "the  more  determined  to  break 
off  the  connection  between  her  and  you.  A  woman  of 
such  antecedents  is  not  a  fit  companion  for  my  wife,  in- 
dependently of  the  fact  that  she  seems  to  be,  in  herself, 
an  intriguing  and  dangerous  character." 

"How  could  she  help  her  antecedents?"  cried  the 
Duchess. 

"I  didn't  say  she  could  help  them.  But  if  they  are 
what  you  say,  she  ought — well,  she  ought  to  be  all  the 
more  careful  to  live  in  a  modest  and  retired  way,  instead 
of,  as  I  understand,  making  herself  the  rival  of  Lady 
Henry.  I  never  heard  anything  so  preposterous — so — 
so  indecent!  She  shows  no  proper  sense,  and,  as  for 
you,  I  deeply  regret  you  should  have  been  brought  into 
any  contact  with  such  a  disgraceful  story." 

"Freddie!"  The  Duchess  went  into  a  helpless,  half- 
hysterical  fit  of  laughter. 

But  the  Duke  merely  expanded,  as  it  seemed,  still 
further — to  his  utmost  height  and  bulk.  "Oh,  dear," 
thought  the  Duchess,  in  despair,  "now  he  is  going  to  be 
like  his  mother!"  Her  strictly  Evangelical  mother-in- 
law,  with  whom  the  Duke  had  made  his  bachelor  home 
for  many  years,  had  been  the  scourge  of  her  early  mar- 
ried life ;  and  though  for  Freddie's  sake  she  had  shed  a  few 
tears  over  her  death,  eighteen  months  before  this  date, 
the  tears — as  indeed  the  Duke  had  thought  at  the  time 
— had  been  only  too  quickly  dried. 

There  could  be  no  question  about  it,  the  Duke  was 
painfully  like  his  mother  as  he  replied: 

"I  fear  that  your  education,  Evelyn,  has  led  you  to 
take  such  things  far  more  lightly  than  you  ought.     I  am 

160 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

old-fashioned.  Illegitimacy  with  me  does  carry  a  stig- 
ma, and  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the 
children.  At  any  rate,  we  who  occupy  a  prominent 
social  place  have  no  right  to  do  anything  which  may 
lead  others  to  think  lightly  of  God's  law.  I  am  sorry 
to  speak  plainly,  Evelyn.  I  dare  say  you  don't  like 
these  sentiments,  but  you  know,  at  least,  that  I  am 
quite  honest  in  expressing  them." 

The  Duke  turned  to  her,  not  without  dignity.  He  was 
and  had  been  from  his  boyhood  a  person  of  irreproach- 
able morals — earnest  and  religious  according  to  his  lights, 
a  good  son,  husband,  and  father.  His  wife  looked  at  him 
with  mingled  feelings. 

"Well,  all  I  know  is,"  she  said,  passionately  beating 
her  little  foot  on  the  carpet  before  her,  "that,  by  all  ac- 
counts, the  only  thing  to  do  with  Colonel  Delaney  was 
to  run  away  from  him." 

The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  be  much  moved  by  a  remark 
of  that  kind?  As  to  this  lady,  your  story  does  not  affect 
me  in  her  favor  in  the  smallest  degree.  She  has  had 
her  education;  Lord  Lackington  gives  her  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year;  if  she  is  a  self-respecting  woman  she  will 
look  after  herself.  I  don't  want  to  have  her  here,  and  I 
beg  you  won't  invite  her.  A  couple  of  nights,  perhaps 
— I  don't  mind  that — but  not  for  longer." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  you  may  be  very  sure  she  won't  stay 
here  unless  you're  very  particularly  nice  to  her.  There'll 
be  plenty  of  people  glad — enchanted — to  have  her!  T 
don't  care  about  that,  but  what  I  do  want  is" — the 
Duchess  looked  up  with  calm  audacity  —  "that  you 
should  fmd  her  a  house." 

II  i6i 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  Duke  paused  in  his  walk  and  surveyed  his  wife 
with  amazement. 

"Evelyn,  are  you  quite  mad?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  You  have  more  houses  than  you 
know  what  to  do  with,  and  a  great  deal  more  money 
than  anybody  in  the  world  ought  to  have.  If  they  ever 
do  set  up  the  guillotine  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  we  shall 
be  among  the  first — we  ought  to  be!" 

"What  is  the  good  of  talking  nonsense  like  this, 
Evelyn?"  said  the  Duke,  once  more  consulting  his  watch. 
"Let's  go  back  to  the  subject  of  my  letter  to  Lady 
Henry." 

"  It's  most  excellent  sense!"  cried  the  Duchess,  spring- 
ing up.  "You  have  more  houses  than  you  know  what 
to  do  with;  and  you  have  one  house  in  particular — that 
little  place  at  the  back  of  Cureton  Street  where  Cousin 
Mary  Leicester  lived  so  long — v/hich  is  in  your  hands 
still,  I  know,  for  you  told  me  so  last  week — which  is 
vacant  and  furnished — Cousin  Mary  left  you  the  furni- 
ture, as  if  we  hadn't  got  enough! — and  it  would  be  the 
very  thing  for  Julie,  if  only  you'd  lend  it  to  her  till  she 
can  turn  round." 

The  Duchess  was  now  standing  up,  confronting  her 
lord,  her  hands  grasping  the  chair  behind  her,  her  small 
form  alive  with  eagerness  and  the  feminine  determina- 
tion to  get  her  own  way,  by  fair  means  or  foul. 

"Cureton  Street!"  said  the  Duke,  almost  at  the  end 
of  his  tether.  "And  how  do  you  propose  that  this 
young  woman  is  to  live — in  Cureton  Street,  or  anywhere 
else?" 

"  She  means  to  write,"  said  the  Duchess,  shortly.  "Dr. 
Meredith  has  promised  her  work." 

162 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Sheer  lunacy!  In  six  months  time  you'd  have  to 
step  in  and  pay  all  her  bills." 

"  I  should  Hke  to  see  anybody  dare  to  propose  to  Julie 
to  pay  her  bills!"  cried  the  Duchess,  with  scorn.  "  You 
see,  the  great  pity  is,  Freddie,  that  you  don't  know  any- 
thing at  all  about  her.  But  that  house — wasn't  it  made 
out  of  a  stable?  It  has  got  six  rooms,  I  know — three  bed- 
rooms up-stairs,  and  two  sitting-rooms  and  a  kitchen 
below.  With  one  good  maid  and  a  boy  Julie  could  be 
perfectly  comfortable.  She  would  earn  four  hundred 
pounds — Dr.  Meredith  has  promised  her — she  has  one 
hundred  pounds  a  year  of  her  own.  She  would  pay  no 
rent,  of  course.  She  would  have  just  enough  to  live  on, 
poor,  dear  thing!  And  she  would  be  able  to  gather  her 
old  friends  round  her  when  she  wanted  them.  A  cup  of 
tea  and  her  delightful  conversation — that's  all  they'd 
ever  want." 

"Oh,  go  on — go  on!"  said  the  Duke,  throwing  him- 
self exasperated  into  an  arm-chair;  "the  ease  with  which 
you  dispose  of  my  property  on  behalf  of  a  young  woman 
who  has  caused  me  most  acute  annoyance,  who  has 
embroiled  us  with  a  near  relation  for  whom  I  have  a 
very  particular  respect!  Her  friends,  indeed!  Lady 
Henry's  friends,  you  mean.  Poor  Lady  Henry  tells  me 
in  this  letter  that  her  circle  v/ill  be  completely  scattered. 
This  mischievous  woman  in  three  years  has  destroyed 
what  it  has  taken  Lady  Henry  nearly  thirty  to  build 
up.  Now  lock  here,  Evelyn  " — the  Duke  sat  up  and 
slapped  his  knee  —  "as  to  this  Cureton  Street  plan,  I 
will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  may  have  Miss  Le 
Breton  here  for  two  or  three  nights  if  you  like — I  shall 
probably  go  down  to  the  country — and,  of  course,  I  have 

163 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

no  objection  to  make  if  you  wish  to  help  her  find  an- 
other situation — " 

"Another  situation!"  cried  the  Duchess,  beside  herself. 
"  Freddie,  you  really  are  impossible!  Do  you  understand 
that  I  regard  Julie  Le  Breton  as  vty  relation,  whatever 
you  may  say — that  I  love  her  dearly — that  there  are 
fifty  people  with  money  and  influence  ready  to  help  her 
if  you  won't,  because  she  is  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
distinguished  women  in  London  —  that  you  ought  to  be 
proud  to  do  her  a  service — that  I  want  you  to  have  the 
honor  of  it — there!  And  if  you  won't  do  this  little  favor 
for  me — when  I  ask  and  beg  it  of  you — I'll  make  you 
remember  it  for  a  very  long  time  to  come — you  may  be 
sure  of  that!" 

And  his  wife  turned  upon  him  as  an  image  of  war,  her 
fair  hair  ruffling  about  her  ears,  her  cheeks  and  eyes 
brilliant  with  anger — and  something  more. 

The  Duke  rose  in  silent  ferocity  and  sought  for  some 
letters  which  he  had  left  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"I  had  better  leave  you  to  come  to  your  senses  by 
yourself,  and  as  quickly  as  possible,"  he  said,  as  he  put 
them  into  his  pockets.  "No  good  can  come  of  any 
more  discussion  of  this  sort." 

The  Duchess  said  nothing.  She  looked  out  of  the 
window  busily,  and  bit  her  hp.  Her  silence  served  her 
better  than  her  speech,  for  suddenly  the  Duke  looked 
round,  hesitated,  threw  down  a  book  he  carried,  walked 
up  to  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"You  are  a  very  foolish  child,"  he  declared,  as  he  held 
her  by  main  force  and  kissed  away  her  tears.  "You 
make  me  lose  my  temper — and  waste  my  time — for 
nothing." 

164 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  sobbing  Duchess,  trying  to  push 
herself  away,  and  denying  him,  as  best  she  could,  her 
soft,  flushed  face.  "You  don't,  or  you  won't,  under- 
stand! I  was — I  was  very  fond  of  Uncle  George  Chan- 
trey.  He  would  have  helped  Julie  if  he  were  alive.  And 
as  for  you,  you're  Lord  Lackington's  godson,  and  you're 
always  preaching  what  he's  done  for  the  army,  and  what 
the  nation  owes  him — and — and — " 

"Does  he  know?"  said  the  Duke,  abruptly,  marvelling 
at  the  irrelevance  of  these  remarks. 

"  No,  not  a  word.  Only  six  people  in  London  know — 
Aunt  Flora,  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury" — the  Duke  made  an  ex- 
clamation— "Mr.  Montresor,  Jacob,  you,  and  L" 

"Jacob!"  said  the  Duke.  "What's  he  got  to  do  with 
it?" 

The  Duchess  suddenly  saw  her  opportunity,  and 
rushed  upon  it. 

"Only  that  he's  madly  in  love  with  her,  that's  all. 
And,  to  my  knowledge,  she  has  refused  him  both  last 
year  and  this.  Of  course,  naturally,  if  you  won't  do  any- 
thing to  help  her,  she'll  probably  marry  him — simply  as 
a  way  out." 

"Well,  of  all  the  extraordinary  affairs!" 

The  Duke  released  her,  and  stood  bewildered.  The 
Duchess  watched  him  in  some  excitement.  He  was  about 
to  speak,  when  there  was  a  sound  in  the  anteroom. 
They  moved  hastily  apart.  The  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  footman  annoiinced,  "Miss  Le  Breton." 

Julie  Le  Breton  entered,  and  stood  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  looking,  not  in  embarrassment,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain hesitation,  at  the  two  persons  whose  conversation 

i6s 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

she  had  disturbed.  She  was  pale  with  sleeplessness ;  her 
look  was  sad  and  weary.  But  never  had  she  been  more 
composed,  more  elegant.  Her  closely  fitting  black 
cloth  dress;  her  strangely  expressive  face,  framed  by  a 
large  hat,  very  simple,  but  worn  as  only  the  woman  of 
fashion  knows  how;  her  miraculous  yet  most  graceful 
slenderness;  the  delicacy  of  her  hands;  the  natural  dig- 
nity of  her  movements — these  things  produced  an  im- 
mediate, though,  no  doubt,  conflicting  impression  upon 
the  gentleman  who  had  just  been  denouncing  her.  He 
bowed,  with  an  involuntary  deference  which  he  had  not 
at  all  meant  to  show  to  Lady  Henry's  insubordinate  com- 
panion, and  then  stood  frowning. 

But  the  Duchess  ran  forward,  and,  quite  heedless  of 
her  husband,  threw  herself  into  her  friend's  arms. 

"Oh,  JuHe,  is  there  anything  left  of  you?  I  hardly 
slept  a  wink  for  thinking  of  you.  What  did  that  old — 
oh,  I  forgot — do  you  know  my  husband?  Freddie,  this 
is  my  great  friend,  Miss  Le  Breton." 

The  Duke  bowed  again,  silently.  JuHe  looked  at  him, 
and  then,  still  holding  the  Duchess  by  the  hand,  she  ap- 
proached him,  a  pair  of  very  fine  and  pleading  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  face. 

"You  have  probably  heard  from  Lady  Henry,  have 
you  not?"  she  said,  addressing  him.  "In  a  note  I  had 
from  her  this  morning  she  told  me  she  had  written  to 
you.  I  could  not  help  coming  to-day,  because  Evelyn 
has  been  so  kind.  But — is  it  your  wish  that  I  should 
come  here?" 

The  Christian  name  slipped  out  unawares,  and  the 
Duke  winced  at  it.  The  Hkeness  to  Lord  Lackington — 
it  was  certainly  astonishing.     There  ran  through  his 

i66 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

mind  the  memory  of  a  visit  paid  long  ago  to  his  early 
home  by  Lord  Lackington  and  two  daughters,  Rose  and 
Blanche.  He,  the  Duke,  had  then  been  a  boy  home 
from  school.  The  two  girls,  one  five  or  six  years  older 
than  the  other,  had  been  the  life  and  charm  of  the  party. 
He  remembered  hunting  with  Lady  Rose. 

But  the  confusion  in  his  mind  had  somehow  to  be 
mastered,  and  he  made  an  effort. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  my  wife  is  able  to  be  of  any  assist- 
ance to  you,  Miss  Le  Breton,"  he  said,  coldly;  "but  it 
would  not  be  honest  if  I  were  to  conceal  my  opinion — 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  form  it — that  Lady  Henry 
has  great  and  just  cause  of  complaint." 

"You  are  quite  right — quite  right,"  said  Julie,  almost 
with  eagerness.     "She  has,  indeed." 

The  Duke  was  taken  by  surprise.  Imperious  as  he  was, 
and  stiffened  by  a  good  many  of  those  petty  prides 
which  the  spoiled  children  of  the  world  escape  so  hardly, 
he  found  himself  hesitating — groping  for  his  words. 

The  Duchess  meanwhile  drew  Juhe  impulsively  tow- 
ards a  chair. 

"Do  sit  down.     You  look  so  tired." 

But  Julie's  gaze  was  still  bent  upon  the  Duke.  She 
restrained  her  friend's  eager  hand,  and  the  Duke  col- 
lected himself.  He  brought  a  chair,  and  Julie  seated 
herself. 

"I  am  deeply,  deeply  distressed  about  Lady  Henry," 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  by  which  the  Duke  felt  himself 
most  unwillingly  penetrated.  "I  don't — oh  no,  indeed, 
I  don't  defend  last  night.  Only — my  position  has  been 
very  difficult  lately.  I  wanted  very  much  to  see  the 
Duchess — and — it  was  natural — wasn't  it? — that  the  old 

167 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

friends  should  like  to  be  personally  informed  about  Lady 
Henry's  illness?  But,  of  course,  they  stayed  too  long; 
it  was  my  fault — I  ought  to  have  prevented  it." 

She  paused.  This  stern-looking  man,  who  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  mantel -piece  regarding  her,  Philistine 
though  he  was,  had  yet  a  straight,  disinterested  air,  from 
which  she  shrank  a  little.  Honestly,  she  would  have 
liked  to  tell  him  the  truth.  But  how  could  she?  She 
did  her  best,  and  her  account  certainly  was  no  more  un- 
true than  scores  of  narratives  of  social  incident  which 
issue  every  day  from  lips  the  most  respected  and  the 
most  veracious.  As  for  the  Duchess,  she  thought  it  the 
height  of  candor  and  generosity.  The  only  thing  she 
could  have  wished,  perhaps,  in  her  inmost  heart,  was 
that  she  had  not  found  Julie  alone  with  Harry  Wark- 
worth.  But  her  loyal  lips  would  have  suffered  torments 
rather  than  accuse  or  betray  her  friend. 

The  Duke  meanwhile  went  through  various  phases 
of  opinion  as  Julie  laid  her  story  before  him.  Perhaps 
he  was  chiefly  affected  by  the  tone  of  quiet  independence 
— as  from  equal  to  equal — in  which  she  addressed  him. 
His  wife's  cousin  by  marriage;  the  granddaughter  of  an 
old  and  intimate  friend  of  his  own  family;  the  daughter 
of  a  man  known  at  one  time  throughout  Europe,  and 
himself  amply  well  born — all  these  facts,  warm,  living, 
and  still  efficacious,  stood,  as  it  were,  behind  this  manner 
of  hers,  prompting  and  endorsing  it.  But,  good  Heav- 
ens! was  illegitimacy  to  be  as  legitimacy? — to  carry  with 
it  no  stains  and  penalties?  Was  vice  to  be  virtue,  or  as 
good?     The  Duke  rebelled. 

"  It  is  a  most  unfortunate  affair,  of  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence,  when  Julie  had 

i68 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

brought  her  story  to  an  end;  and  then,  more  sternly,  "  I 
shall  certainly  apologize  for  my  wife's  share  in  it." 

"  Lady  Henry  won't  be  angry  with  the  Duchess  long," 
said  Julie  Le  Breton.  "As  for  me  " — her  voice  sank — 
"my  letter  this  morning  was  returned  to  me  unopened." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause;  then  Julie  re- 
sumed, in  another  tone  ; 

"But  what  I  am  now  chiefly  anxious  to  discuss  is, 
how  can  we  save  Lady  Henry  from  any  further  pain  or 
annoyance  ?  She  once  said  to  me  in  a  fit  of  anger  that  if 
I  left  her  in  consequence  of  a  quarrel,  and  any  of  her  old 
friends  sided  with  me,  she  would  never  see  them  again." 

"I  know,"  said  the  Duke,  sharply.  "Her  salon  will 
break  up.     She  already  foresees  it." 

"But  why? — why?"  cried  Julie,  in  a  most  becoming  dis- 
tress. "Somehow,  we  must  prevent  it.  Unfortunately 
I  must  live  in  London.  I  have  the  offer  of  work  here — 
journalist's  work  which  cannot  be  done  in  the  country 
or  abroad.  But  I  would  do  all  I  could  to  shield  Lady 
Henry." 

"What  about  Mr.  Montresor?"  said  the  Duke,  abrupt- 
ly. Montresor  had  been  the  well-known  Chateaubriand 
to  Lady  Henry's  Madame  Recamier  for  more  than  a 
generation. 

Julie  turned  to  him  with  eagerness. 

"  Mr.  Montresor  wrote  to  me  early  this  morning.  The 
letter  reached  me  at  breakfast.  In  Mrs.  Montresor's 
name  and  his  own,  he  asked  me  to  stay  with  them  till 
my  plans  developed.  He — he  was  kind  enough  to  say 
he  felt  himself  partly  responsible  for  last  night." 

"And  you  repHed?"     The  Duke  eyed  her  keenly. 

Julie  sighed  and  looked  down. 

169 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  I  begged  him  not  to  think  any  more  of  me  in  the 
matter,  but  to  write  at  once  to  Lady  Henry.  I  hope  he 
has  done  so." 

"And  so  you  refused — excuse  these  questions — Mrs. 
Montresor's  invitation?" 

The  working  of  the  Duke's  mind  was  revealed  in  his 
drawn  and  puzzled  brows. 

"Certainly."  The  speaker  looked  at  him  with  sur- 
prise. "Lady  Henry  would  never  have  forgiven  that. 
It  could  not  be  thought  of.  Lord  Lackington  also" — 
but  her  voice  wavered. 

"Yes?"  said  the  Duchess,  eagerly,  throwing  herself  on 
a  stool  at  Julie's  feet  and  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"He,  too,  has  written  to  me.  He  wants  to  help  me. 
But — I  can't  let  him." 

The  words  ended  in  a  whisper.  She  leaned  back  in 
her  chair,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  It  was 
very  quietly  done,  and  very  touching.  The  Duchess 
threw  a  lightning  glance  at  her  husband;  and  then,  pos- 
sessing herself  of  one  of  Julie's  hands,  she  kissed  it  and 
murmured  over  it. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  situation?"  thought  the  Duke, 
much  shaken.  "And  she  has  already,  if  Evelyn  is  to  be 
believed,  refused  the  chance — the  practical  certainty — 
of  being  Duchess  of  Chudleigh!" 

He  was  a  man  with  whom  a  gran  rtfitUo  of  this  kind 
weighed  heavily.  His  moral  sense  exacted  such  things 
rather  of  other  people  than  himself.  But,  when  made, 
he  could  appreciate  them. 

After  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  he  walked 
up  to  the  two  women. 

"Miss  Le  Breton,"  he  said,  in  a  far  more  hurried  tone 

170 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

than  was  usual  to  him,  "  I  cannot  approve — and  Evelyn 
ought  not  to  approve — of  much  that  has  taken  place 
during  your  residence  with  Lady  Henry.  But  I  under- 
stand that  your  post  was  not  an  easy  one,  and  I  recog- 
nize the  forbearance  of  your  present  attitude.  Evelyn 
is  much  distressed  about  it  all.  On  the  understanding 
that  you  will  do  what  you  can  to  soften  this  breach 
for  Lady  Henry,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
come  partially  to  your  assistance." 

Julie  looked  up  gravely,  her  eyebrows  lifting.  The 
Duke  found  himself  reddening  as  he  went  on. 

"I  have  a  little  house  near  here — a  little  furnished 
house — Evelyn  will  explain  to  you.  It  happens  to  be 
vacant.  If  you  will  accept  a  loan  of  it,  say  for  six 
months" — the  Duchess  frowned — "you  will  give  me 
pleasure.  I  will  explain  my  action  to  Lady  Henry,  and 
endeavor  to  soften  her  feelings." 

He  paused.  Miss  Le  Breton's  face  was  grateful,  touch- 
ed with  emotion,  but  more  than  hesitating. 

"You  are  very  good.  But  I  have  no  claim  upon  you 
at  all.     And  I  can  support  myself." 

A  touch  of  haughtiness  slipped  into  her  manner  as 
she  gently  rose  to  her  feet.  "Thank  God,  I  did  not  offer 
her  money!"  thought  the  Duke,  strangely  perturbed. 

"Julie,  dear  Julie,"  implored  the  Duchess.  "It's  such 
a  tiny  little  place,  and  it  is  quite  musty  for  want  of 
living  in.  Nobody  has  set  foot  in  it  but  the  caretaker 
for  two  years,  and  it  would  be  really  a  kindness  to  us  to 
go  and  live  there — wouldn't  it,  Freddie?  And  there's  all 
the  furniture  just  as  it  was,  down  to  the  bellows  and 
the  snuffers.  If  you'd  only  use  it  and  take  care  of  it; 
Freddie  hasn't  liked  to  sell  it,  because  it's  all  old  family 

171 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

stuff,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  Cousin  Mary  Leicester. 
Oh,  do  say  yes,  Julie!  They  shall  light  the  fires,  and  I'll 
send  in  a  few  sheets  and  things,  and  you'll  feel  as  though 
you'd  been  there  for  years.     Do,  Jiilie!" 

Julie  shook  her  head. 

"I  came  here,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  still  un- 
steady, "to  ask  for  advice,  not  favors.  But  it's  very 
good  of  you." 

And  with  trembling  fingers  she  began  to  refasten  her 
veil. 

"Julie! — where  are  you  going?"  cried  the  Duchess. 
"You're  staying  here." 

"Staying  here?"  said  Julie,  turning  round  upon  her. 
"Do  you  think  I  should  be  a  burden  upon  you,  or  any 
one?" 

"But,  Julie,  you  told  Jacob  you  would  come." 

"I  have  come.  I  wanted  your  sympathy,  and  your 
counsel.  I  wished  also  to  confess  myself  to  the  Duke, 
and  to  point  out  to  him  how  matters  could  be  made 
easier  for  Lady  Henry." 

The  penitent,  yet  dignified,  sadness  of  her  manner  and 
voice  completed  the  discomfiture  —  the  temporary  dis- 
comfiture— of  the  Duke. 

"Miss  Le  Breton,"  he  said,  abruptly,  coming  to  stand 
beside  her,  "I  remember  your  mother." 

Julie's  eyes  filled.  Her  hand  still  held  her  veil,  but 
it  paused  in  its  task. 

"I  was  a  small  school-boy  when  she  stayed  with  us," 
resumed  the  Duke.  "  She  was  a  beautiful  girl.  She  let 
me  go  out  hunting  with  her.  She  was  very  kind  to 
me,  and  1  thought  her  a  kind  of  goddess.  When  I  first 
heard  her  story,  years   afterwards,  it  shocked  me  aw- 

172 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

fully.  For  her  sake,  accept  my  offer.  I  don't  think 
lightly  of  such  actions  as  your  mother's — not  at  all.  But 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her  daughter  alone  and  friend- 
less in  London." 

Yet  even  as  he  spoke  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to 
another  person.  He  did  not  himself  understand  the 
feelings  which  animated  him,  nor  the  strength  with 
which  his  recollections  of  Lady  Rose  had  suddenly  in- 
vaded him. 

Julie  leaned  her  arms  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  hid  her 
face.  She  had  turned  her  back  to  them,  and  they  saw- 
that  she  was  crying  softly. 

The  Duchess  crept  up  to  her  and  wound  her  arms 
round  her. 

"You  will,  Julie! — you  will!  Lady  Henry  has  turned 
you  out-of-doors  at  a  moment's  notice.  And  it  was  a 
great  deal  my  fault.     You  must  let  us  help  you!" 

Julie  did  not  answer,  but,  partially  disengaging  herself , 
and  without  looking  at  him,  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
the  Duke. 

He  pressed  it  with  a  cordiality  that  amazed  him. 

"That's  right  —  that's  right.  Now,  Evelyn,  I  leave 
you  to  make  the  arrangements.  The  keys  shall  be  here 
this  afternoon.  Miss  Le  Breton,  of  course,  stays  here 
till  things  are  settled.  As  for  me,  I  must  really  be  off  to 
my  meeting.     One  thing.  Miss  Le  Breton — " 

"Yes." 

"I  think,"  he  said,  gravely,  "you  ought  to  reveal 
yourself  to  Lord  Lackington." 

She  shrank. 

"You'll  let  me  take  my  own  time  for  that?"  was  her 
appealing  reply. 

173 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"Very  well — very  well.     We'll  speak  of  it  again." 
And  he  hurried  away.     As  he  descended  his  own  stairs 
astonishment  at  what  he  had  done  rushed  upon  him  and 
overwhelmed  him. 

"  How  on  earth  am  I  ever  to  explain  the  thing  to  Lady 
Henry?" 

I  And  as  he  went  citywards  in  his  cab,  he  felt  much 
more  guilty  than  his  wife  had  ever  done.  What  could 
have  made  him  behave  in  this  extraordinary,  this  pre- 
posterous way?  A  touch  of  fooHsh  romance — immoral 
romance — of  which  he  was  already  ashamed?  Or  the 
one  bare  fact  that  this  woman  had  refused  Jacob  Dela- 
field? 


XI 


"  TTERE  it  is,"  said  the  Duchess,  as  the  carriage 
1  1  stopped.  "Isn't  it  an  odd  little  place?" 
And  as  she  and  Julie  paused  on  the  pavement,  Julie 
looked  listlessly  at  her  new  home.  It  was  a  two-storied 
brick  house,  built  about  1780.  The  front  door  boasted 
a  pair  of  Ionian  columns  and  a  classical  canopy  or  pedi- 
ment. The  windows  had  still  the  original  small  panes; 
the  mansarde  roof,  with  its  one  dormer,  was  untouched. 
The  little  house  had  rather  deep  eaves;  three  windows 
above;  two,  and  the  front  door,  below.  It  wore  a  prim, 
old-fashioned  air,  a  good  deal  softened  and  battered, 
however,  by  age,  and  it  stood  at  the  corner  of  two  streets, 
both  dingily  quiet,  and  destined,  no  doubt,  to  be  rebuilt 
before  long  in  the  general  rejuvenation  of  Mayfair. 

As  the  Duchess  had  said,  it  occupied  the  site  of  what 
had  once  —  about  1740  —  been  the  westerly  end  of  a 
mews  belonging  to  houses  in  Cureton  Street,  long  since 
pulled  down.  The  space  filled  by  these  houses  was  now 
occupied  by  one  great  mansion  and  its  gardens.  The 
rest  of  the  mews  had  been  converted  into  three-story 
houses  of  a  fair  size,  looking  south,  with  a  back  road  be- 
tween them  and  the  gardens  of  Cureton  House.  But  at 
the  southwesterly  corner  of  what  was  now  Heribert 
Street,  fronting  west  and  quite  out  of  line  and  keeping 
with  the  rest,  was  this  curious  little  place,  built  prob- 

175 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

ably  at  a  different  date  and  for  some  special  family  rea- 
son. The  big  planes  in  the  Cureton  House  gardens 
came  close  to  it  and  overshadowed  it;  one  side  wall  of 
the  house,  in  fact,  formed  part  of  the  wall  of  the  garden. 

The  Duchess,  full  of  nervousness,  ran  up  the  steps,  put 
in  the  key  herself,  and  threw  open  the  door.  An  elderly 
Scotchwoman,  the  caretaker,  appeared  from  the  back 
and  stood  waiting  to  show  them  over. 

"Oh,  Julie,  perhaps  it's  too  queer  and  musty!"  cried 
the  Duchess,  looking  round  her  in  some  dismay.  "I 
thought,  you  know,  it  would  be  a  little  out-of-the-way 
and  quaint — unlike  other  people — just  what  you  ought 
to  have.     But — " 

"I  think  it's  delightful,"  said  Julie,  standing  absent- 
ly before  a  case  of  stuffed  birds,  somewhat  moth-eaten, 
which  took  up  a  good  deal  of  space  in  the  little  hall.  "  I 
love  stuffed  birds." 

The  Duchess  glanced  at  her  uneasily.  "What  is  she 
thinking  about?"  she  wondered.  But  Julie  roused  her- 
self. 

"Why,  it  looks  as  though  everything  here  had  gone  to 
sleep  for  a  hundred  years,"  she  said,  gazing  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  little  hall,  with  its  old  clock,  its  two  or  three 
stiff  hunting-pictures,  its  drab-painted  walls,  its  poker- 
work  chest. 

And  the  drawing-room!  The  caretaker  had  opened 
the  windows.  It  was  a  mild  March  day,  and  there  were 
misty  stm-gleams  stealing  along  the  lawns  of  Cureton 
House.  None  entered  the  room  itself,  for  its  two  semi- 
circular windows  looked  north  over  the  gardens.  Yet  it 
was  not  uncheerful.  Its  faded  curtains  of  blue  rep,  its 
buff  walls,  on  which  the  pictures  and  miniatures  in  their 

176 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

tarnished  gilt  frames  were  arranged  at  intervals  in  stiff 
patterns  and  groups ;  the  Italian  glass,  painted  with  dilap- 
idated Cupids,  over  the  mantel-piece;  the  two  or  three 
Sheraton  arm-chairs  and  settees,  covered  with  thread- 
bare needle-work  from  the  days  of  "Evelina";  a  carpet 
of  old  and  well-preserved  Brussels — blue  arabesques  on  a 
white  ground;  one  or  two  pieces  of  old  satin-wood  fur- 
niture, very  fine  and  perfect;  a  heavy  centre-table,  its 
cloth  garnished  with  some  early  Victorian  wool-work, 
and  a  pair  of  pink  glass  vases;  on  another  small  table 
close  by,  of  a  most  dainty  and  spindle-legged  correctness, 
a  set  of  Indian  chessmen  under  a  glass  shade;  and  on 
another  a  collection  of  tiny  animals,  stags  and  dogs  for 
the  most  part,  deftly  "pinched"  out  of  soft  paper,  also 
under  glass,  and  as  perfect  as  when  their  slender  limbs 
were  first  fashioned  by  Cousin  Mary  Leicester's  mother, 
somewhere  about  the  year  that  Marie  Antoinette  mount- 
ed the  scaffold.  These  various  elements,  ugly  and  beau- 
tiful, combined  to  make  a  general  effect — clean,  fastid- 
ious, frugal,  and  refined — that  was,  in  truth,  full  of  a  sort 
of  acid  charm. 

"Oh,  I  like  it!  I  like  it  so  much!"  cried  Julie,  throw- 
ing herself  down  into  one  of  the  straight  -  backed  arm- 
chairs and  looking  first  round  the  walls  and  then 
through  the  windows  to  the  gardens  outside. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Duchess,  flitting  from  one  thing 
to  another,  frowning  and  a  little  fussed,  "those  curtains 
won't  do  at  all.     I  must  send  some  from  home." 

"  No,  no,  Evelyn.  Not  a  thing  shall  be  changed.  You 
shall  lend  it  me  just  as  it  is  or  not  at  all.  What  a  char- 
acter it  has!     I  taste  the  person  who  lived  here." 

"Cousin  Mary  Leicester?"  said  the  Duchess.     "Well, 
12  177 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

she  was  rather  an  oddity.  She  was  Low  Church,  Hke 
my  mother-in-law;  but,  oh,  so  much  nicer!  Once  I  let 
her  come  to  Grosvenor  Square  and  speak  to  the  servants 
about  going  to  church.  The  groom  of  the  chambers  said 
she  was  'a  dear  old  lady,  and  if  she  were  his  cousin  he 
wouldn't  mind  her  being  a  bit  touched.'  My  maid  said 
she  had  no  idea  poke  -  bonnets  could  be  so  sweet.  It 
made  her  understand  what  the  Queen  looked  like  when 
she  was  young.  And  none  of  them  have  ever  been  to 
church  since  that  I  can  make  out.  There  was  one  very 
curious  thing  about  Cousin  Mary  Leicester,"  added  the 
Duchess,  slowly — "she  had  second  sight.  She  saw  her 
old  mother,  in  this  room,  once  or  twice,  after  she  had 
been  dead  for  years.  And  she  saw  Freddie  once,  when 
he  was  away  on  a  long  voyage — " 

"Ghosts,  too!"  said  Julie,  crossing  her  hands  before 
her  with  a  little  shiver — "that  completes  it." 

"Sixty  years,"  said  the  Duchess,  musing.  "It  was  a 
long  time — wasn't  it? — to  live  in  this  little  house,  and 
scarcely  ever  leave  it.  Oh,  she  had  quite  a  circle  of  her 
own.  For  many  years  her  funny  little  sister  lived  here, 
too.  And  there  was  a  time,  Freddie  says,  when  there 
was  almost  a  rivalry  between  them  and  two  other  fa- 
mous old  ladies  who  lived  in  Bruton  Street — what  was 
their  name?  Oh,  the  Miss  Berrys!  Horace  Walpole's 
Miss  Berrys.  All  sorts  of  famous  people,  I  believe,  have 
sat  in  these  chairs.     But  the  Miss  Berrys  won." 

"Not  in  years?     Cousin  Mary  outlived  them." 

"Ah,  but  she  was  dead  long  before  she  died,"  said 
the  Duchess  as  she  came  to  perch  on  the  arm  of  Julie's 
chair,  and  threw  her  arm  round  her  friend's  neck.  "After 
her  little  sister  departed  this  life   she   became  a  very 

178 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

silent,  shrivelled  thing  —  except  for  her  religion — and 
very  few  people  saw  her.  She  took  a  fancy  to  me — 
which  was  odd,  wasn't  it,  when  I'm  such  a  worldling? — 
and  she  let  me  come  in  and  out.  Every  morning  she 
read  the  Psalms  and  Lessons,  with  her  old  maid,  who 
was  just  her  own  age — in  this  very  chair.  And  two  or 
three  times  a  month  Freddie  would  slip  round  and  read 
them  with  her — you  know  Freddie's  very  reHgious.  And 
then  she'd  work  at  flannel  petticoats  for  the  poor,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  till  lunch.  Afterwards  she'd  go 
and  read  the  Bible  to  people  in  the  workhouse  or  in 
hospital.  When  she  came  home,  the  butler  brought  her 
the  Times;  and  sometimes  you'd  find  her  by  the  fire, 
straining  her  old  eyes  over  'a  little  Dante.'  And  she 
always  dressed  for  dinner — everything  was  quite  smart 
— and  her  old  butler  served  her.  Afterwards  her  maid 
played  dominoes  or  spillikins  with  her — all  her  life  she 
never  touched  a  card  —  and  they  read  a  chapter,  and 
Cousin  Mary  played  a  hymn  on  that  funny  little  old 
piano  there  in  the  corner,  and  at  ten  they  all  went  to  bed. 
Then,  one  morning,  the  maid  went  in  to  wake  her,  and  she 
saw  her  dear  sharp  nose  and  chin  against  the  light,  and 
her  hands  like  that,  in  front  of  her — and — well,  I  suppose, 
she'd  gone  to  play  hymns  in  heaven — dear  Cousin  Mary! 
Julie,  isn't  it  strange  the  kind  of  lives  so  many  of  us 
have  to  lead?  Julie"  —  the  little  Duchess  laid  her 
cheek  against  her  friend's — "do  you  believe  in  another 
life?" 

"You  forget  I'm  a  Catholic,"  said  Julie,  smiling  rather 
doubtfully. 

"Are  you,  Julie?     I'd  forgotten." 
■'The  good  nuns  at  Bruges  took  care  of  that." 
179 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Do  you  ever  go  to  mass?" 

"Sometime^." 

"Then  you're  not  a  good  Catholic,  JuHe?" 

"No,"  said  JuHe,  after  a  pause,  "not  at  all.  But  it 
sometimes  catches  hold  of  me." 

The  old  clock  in  the  hall  struck.  The  Duchess  sprang 
up. 

"Oh,  Julie,  I  have  got  to  be  at  Clarisse's  by  four. 
I  promised  her  I  'd  go  and  settle  about  my  Draw- 
ing-room dress  to-day.  Let's  see  the  rest  of  the 
house." 

And  they  went  rapidly  through  it.  All  of  it  was 
stamped  with  the  same  character,  representing,  as  it  were, 
the  meeting-point  between  an  inherited  luxury  and  a 
personal  asceticism.  Beautiful  chairs,  or  cabinets  trans- 
ported sixty  years  before  from  one  of  the  old  Crow- 
borough  houses  in  the  country  to  this  little  abode,  side 
by  side  with  things  the  cheapest  and  the  commonest — all 
that  Cousin  Mary  Leicester  could  ever  persuade  herself 
to  buy  with  her  own  money.  For  all  the  latter  part  of 
her  life  she  had  been  half  a  mystic  and  half  a  great  lady, 
secretly  hating  the  luxury  from  which  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  free  herself,  dressing  ceremoniously,  as  the 
Duchess  had  said,  for  a  solitary  dinner,  and  all  the  while 
going  in  sore  remembrance  of  a  Master  who  "had  not 
where  to  lay  his  head." 

At  any  rate,  there  was  an  ample  supply  of  household 
stuff  for  a  single  woman  and  her  maids.  In  the  china 
cupboard  there  were  still  the  old-fashioned  Crown  Derby 
services,  the  costly  cut  glass,  the  Leeds  and  Wedgewood 
dessert  dishes  that  Cousin  Mary  Leicester  had  used  for 
half  a  century.     The  caretaker  produced  the  keys  of  the 

180 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

iron-lined  plate  cupboard,  and  showed  its  old-world  con- 
tents, clean  and  in  order. 

Why,  Julie !  If  we'd  only  ordered  the  dinner  I  might 
have  come  to  dine  with  you  to-night!"  cried  the  Duchess, 
enjoying  and  peering  into  everything  like  a  child  with  its 
doll's  house.  "And  the  linen — gracious!"  as  the  doors 
of  another  cupboard  were  opened  to  her.  "But  now  I 
remember,  Freddie  said  nothing  was  to  be  touched  till 
he  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  with  the  little  place. 
Why,  there's  everything!" 

And  they  both  looked  in  astonishment  at  the  white, 
fragrant  rows,  at  the  worn  monogram  in  the  corners  of 
the  sheets,  at  the  little  bags  of  lavender  and  pot-pourri 
ranged  along  the  shelves. 

Suddenly  Julie  turned  away  and  sat  down  by  an  open 
window,  carrying  her  eyes  far  from  the  house  and  its 
stores. 

"It  is  too  much,  Evelyn,"  she  said,  sombrely.  "It 
oppresses  me.     I  don't  think  I  can  live  up  to  it." 

"Julie!"  and  again  the  little  Duchess  came  to  stand 
caressingly  beside  her.  "Why,  you  must  have  sheets — 
and  knives  and  forks!  Why  should  you  get  ugly  new 
ones,  when  you  can  use  Cousin  Mary's?  She  would  have 
loved  you  to  have  them." 

"She  would  have  hated  me  with  all  her  strength," 
said  Miss  Le  Breton,  probably  with  much  truth. 

The  two  were  silent  a  little.  Through  Julie's  stormy 
heart  there  swept  longings  and  bitternesses  inexpressible. 
What  did  she  care  for  the  little  house  and  all  its  luxuries ! 
She  was  sorry  that  she  had  fettered  herself  with  it.  .  .  . 
Nearly  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  no  letter — not 
a  word! 

iSi 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Juiie,"  said  the  Duchess,  softly,  in  her  ear,  "you 
know  you  can't  live  here  alone.  I'm  afraid  Freddie 
would  make  a  fuss." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  said  Julie,  wearily.  "But, 
shall  we  really  go  on  with  it,  Evelyn?" 

The  Duchess  looked  entreaty.  Julie  repented,  and, 
drawing  her  friend  towards  her,  rested  her  head  against 
the  chinchilla  cloak. 

"I'm tired,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "Don't 
think  me  an  ungrateful  wretch.  Well,  there's  my  foster- 
sister  and  her  child." 

"Madame  Bornier  and  the  little  cripple  girl?"  cried 
the  Duchess.     "Excellent!     Where  are  they?" 

"Ldonie  is  in  the  French  Governesses'  Home,  as  it 
happens,  looking  out  for  a  situation,  and  the  child  is  in 
the  Orthopaedic  Hospital.  They've  been  straightening 
her  foot.  It's  wonderfully  better,  and  she's  nearly  ready 
to  come  out." 

"Are  they  nice,  Julie?" 

"Th^rese  is  an  angel — you  must  be  the  one  thing  or 
the  other,  apparently,  if  you're  a  cripple.  And  as  for 
Ldonie — well,  if  she  comes  here,  nobody  need  be  anxious 
about  my  finances.  She'd  count  every  crust  and  cinder. 
We  couldn't  keep  any  English  servant;  but  we  could  get 
a  Belgian  one." 

"But  is  she  nice?"  repeated  the  Duchess. 

"I'm  used  to  her,"  said  Julie,  in  the  same  inanimate 
voice. 

Suddenly  the  clock  in  the  hall  below  struck  four. 

"Heavens!"  cried  the  Duchess.  "You  don't  know 
how  Clarisse  keeps  you  to  your  time.  Shall  I  go  on,  and 
send  the  carriage  back  for  you?" 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Don't  trouble  about  me.  I  should  like  to  look  round 
me  here  a  little  longer." 

"You'll  remember  that  some  of  our  fellow-criminals 
may  look  in  after  five?  Dr.  Meredith  and  Lord  Lack- 
ington  said,  as  we  were  getting  away  last  night — oh, 
how  that  doorstep  of  Aunt  Flora's  burned  my  shoes! — 
that  they  should  come  round.  And  Jacob  is  coming; 
he'll  stay  and  dine,  And,  Julie,  I've  asked  Captain 
Wark worth  to  dine  to-morrow  night." 

"  Have  you?  That's  noble  of  you — for  you  don't  like 
him." 

"I  don't  know  himx!"  cried  the  Duchess,  protesting. 
"  If  you  like  him — of  course  it's  all  right.  Was  he — was 
he  very  agreeable  last  night?"  she  added,  slyly. 

"What  a  word  to  apply  to  anybody  or  anything  con- 
nected with  last  night!" 

"Are  you  very  sore,  Julie?" 

"Well,  on  this  very  day  of  being  turned  out  it  hurts. 
I  wonder  who  is  writing  Lady  Henry's  letters  for  her 
this  afternoon?" 

"  I  hope  they  are  not  getting  written,"  said  the  Duch- 
ess, savagely;  "and  that  she's  missing  you  abominably. 
Good-bye  —  au  revoir !  If  I  am  twenty  minutes  late 
with  Clarisse,  I  sha'n't  get  any  fitting,  duchess  or  no 
duchess." 

And  the  little  creature  hurried  off;  not  so  fast,  how- 
ever, but  that  she  found  time  to  leave  a  number  of  part- 
ing instructions  as  to  the  house  with  the  Scotch  care- 
taker, on  her  way  to  her  carriage. 

Julie  rose  and  made  her  way  down  to  the  drawing- 
T'-Dm  again.  The  Scotchwoman  saw  that  she  wanted  to 
be  alone  and  left  her. 

183 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  windows  were  still  open  to  the  garden  outside. 
Julie  examined  the  paths,  the  shrubberies,  the  great 
plane-trees;  she  strained  her  eyes  towards  the  mansion 
itself.  But  not  much  of  it  could  be  seen.  The  little 
house  at  the  corner  had  been  carefully  planted  out. 

What  wealth  it  implied — that  space  and  size,  in  Lon- 
don! Evidently  the  house  was  still  shut  up.  The 
people  who  owned  it  were  now  living  the  same  cum- 
brous, magnificent  life  in  the  country  which  they  would 
soon  come  up  to  live  in  the  capital.  Honors,  parks, 
money,  birth — all  were  theirs,  as  naturally  as  the  sun 
rose.  Julie  envied  and  hated  the  big  house  and  all  it 
stood  for;  she  flung  a  secret  defiance  at  this  coveted  and 
elegant  Mayfair  that  lay  around  her,  this  heart  of  all 
that  is  recognized,  accepted,  carelessly  sovereign  in  our 
"materialized"  upper  class. 

And  yet  all  the  while  she  knew  that  it  was  an  unreal 
and  passing  defiance.  She  would  not  be  able  in  truth  to 
free  herself  from  the  ambition  to  live  and  shine  in  this 
world  of  the  English  rich  and  well  born.  For,  after  all, 
as  she  told  herself  with  rebellious  passion,  it  was  or 
ought  to  be  her  world.  And  yet  her  whole  being  was 
sore  from  the  experiences  of  these  three  years  with  Lady 
Henry — from  those,  above  all,  of  the  preceding  twenty- 
four  hours.  She  wove  no  romance  about  herself.  "I 
should  have  dismissed  myself  long  ago,"  she  would  have 
said,  contem^ptuously,  to  any  one  who  could  have  com- 
pelled the  disclosure  of  her  thoughts.  But  the  long  and 
miserable  struggle  of  her  self-love  with  Lady  Henry's 
arrogance,  of  her  gifts  with  her  circumstances;  the 
presence  in  this  very  world,  where  she  had  gained  so 
marked  a  personal  success,  of  two  clashing  estimates  of 

184 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

herself,  both  of  which  she  perfectly  understood — the 
one  exalting  her,  the  other  merely  implying  the  cool 
and  secret  judgment  of  persons  who  see  the  world  as  it 
is — these  things  made  a  heat  and  poison  in  her  blood. 

She  was  not  good  enough,  not  desirable  enough,  to  be 
the  wife  of  the  man  she  loved.  Here  was  the  plain 
fact  that  stung  and  stung. 

Jacob  Delafield  had  thought  her  good  enough!  She 
still  felt  the  pressure  of  his  warm,  strong  fingers,  the 
touch  of  his  kiss  upon  her  hand.  "What  a  paradox  was 
she  living  in!  The  Duchess  might  well  ask:  why,  in- 
deed, had  she  refused  Jacob  Delafield — that  first  time? 
As  to  the  second  refusal,  that  needed  no  explanation, 
at  least  for  herself.  When,  upon  that  winter  day,  now 
some  six  weeks  past,  which  had  beheld  Lady  Henry  more 
than  commonly  tyrannical,  and  her  companion  more 
than  commonly  weary  and  rebellious,  Delafield's  stam- 
mered words — as  he  and  she  were  crossing  Grosvenor 
Square  in  the  January  dusk — had  struck  for  the  second 
time  upon  her  ear,  she  was  already  under  Warkworth's 
charm.  But  before — the  first  time?  She  had  come  to 
Lady  Henry  firmly  determined  to  marry  as  soon  and  as 
well  as  she  could — to  throw  off  the  slur  on  her  life — to 
regularize  her  name  and  place  in  the  world.  And  then 
the  possible  heir  of  the  Chudleighs  proposes  to  her — and 
she  rejects  him! 

It  was  sometimes  difficult  for  her  now  to  remember 
all  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  this  strange  action  of 
which  she  was  secretly  so  proud.  But  the  explanation 
was  in  truth  not  far  from  that  she  had  given  to  the 
Duchess.  The  wild  strength  in  her  own  nature  had 
divined  and  shrunk  from  a  similar  strength  in  Delafield's. 

i8S 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Here,  indeed,  one  came  upon  the  fact  which  forever  dif- 
ferentiated her  from  the  adventuress,  had  Sir  Wilfrid 
known.  She  wanted  money  and  name;  there  were  days 
when  she  hungered  for  them.  But  she  would  not  give 
too  reckless  a  price  for  them.  She  was  a  personality,  a 
soul — not  a  vulgar  woman — not  merely  callous  or  greedy. 
She  dreaded  to  be  miserable;  she  had  a  thirst  for  hap- 
piness, and  the  heart  was,  after  all,  stronger  than  the 
head. 

Jacob  Delafield?  No!  Her  being  contracted  and 
shivered  at  the  thought  of  him.  A  will  tardily  devel- 
oped, if  all  accounts  of  his  school  and  college  days  were 
true,  but  now,  as  she  believed,  invincible;  a  mystic;  an 
ascetic;  a  man  under  whose  modest  or  careless  or  self- 
mocking  ways  she,  with  her  eye  for  character,  divined 
the  most  critical  instincts,  and  a  veracity,  iron,  scarcely 
human — a  man  before  whom  one  must  be  always  posing 
at  one's  best — that  was  a,  personal  risk  too  great  to  take 
for  a  Julie  Le  Breton. 

Unless,  indeed,  if  it  came  to  this — that  one  must 
think  no  more  of  love — but  only  of  power — why,  then — 

A  ring  at  the  door,  resounding  through  the  quiet  side 
street.  After  a  minute  the  Scotchwoman  opened  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"Please,  miss,  is  this  meant  for  you?" 

Julie  took  the  letter  in  astonishment.  Then  through 
the  door  she  saw  a  man  standing  in  the  hall  and  recog- 
nized Captain  Warkworth's  Indian  servant. 

"I  don't  understand  him,"  said  the  Scotchwoman, 
shaking  her  head. 

Julie  went  out  to  speak  with  him.  The  man  had 
been  sent  to  Crowborough  House  with  instructions  to 

i86 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

inquire  for  Miss  Le  Breton  and  deliver  his  note.  The 
groom  of  the  chambers,  misinterpreting  the  man's  queer 
English,  and  thinking  the  matter  urgent — the  note  was 
marked  "immediate" — had  sent  him  after  the  ladies  to 
Heribert  Street. 

The  man  was  soon  feed  and  dismissed,  and  Miss  Le 
Breton  took  the  letter  back  to  the  drawing-room. 

So,  after  all,  he  had  not  failed;  there  on  her  lap  was 
her  daily  letter.  Outside  the  scanty  March  sun,  now 
just  setting,  was  touching  the  garden  with  gold.  Had  it 
also  found  its  way  into  Julie's  eyes? 

Now  for  his  explanation: 

"First,  how  and  where  are  you?  I  called  in  Bruton 
Street  at  noon.  Hutton  told  me  you  had  just  gone  to  Crow- 
borough  House.  Kind — no,  wise  little  Duchess!  She  hon- 
ors herself  in  sheltering  you. 

"I  could  not  write  last  night — I  was  too  uncertain,  too 
anxious.  All  I  said  might  have  jarred.  This  morning 
came  your  note,  about  eleven.  It  was  angelic  to  think  so 
kindly  and  thoughtfully  of  a  friend — angelic  to  write  such 
a  letter  at  such  a  time.  You  announced  your  flight  to 
Crowborough  House,  but  did  not  say  when,  so  I  crept  to 
Bruton  Street,  seeing  Lady  Henry  in  every  lamp-post,  got 
a  few  clandestine  words  with  Hutton,  and  knew,  at  least, 
what  had  happened  to  you — outwardly  and  visibly. 

"Last  night  did  you  think  me  a  poltroon  to  vanish  as  I 
did?  It  was  the  impulse  of  a  moment.  Mr.  Montresor  had 
pulled  me  into  a  comer  of  the  room,  away  from  the  rest  of 
the  party,  nominally  to  look  at  a  picture,  really  that  I 
might  answer  a  confidential  question  he  had  just  put  to  me 
with  regard  to  a  disputed  incident  in  the  Afridi  campaign. 
We  were  in  the  dark  and  partly  behind  a  screen.  Then  the 
door  opened.     I  confess  the  sight  of  Lady  Henry  paralyzed 

187 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

me.  A  great,  murderous,  six-foot  Afridi — that  would  have 
been  simple  enough.  But  a  woman — old  and  ill  and  furi- 
ous— with  that  Medusa's  face — no!  My  nerves  suddenly 
failed  me.  What  right  had  I  in  her  house,  after  all?  As 
she  advanced  into  the  room,  I  slipped  out  behind  her.  Gen- 
eral Fergus  and  M.  du  Bartas  joined  me  in  the  hall.  We 
walked  to  Bond  Street  together.  They  were  divided  be- 
tween laughter  and  vexation.  I  should  have  laughed — if  I 
could  have  forgotten  you. 

"  But  v/hat  could  I  have  done  for  you,  dear  lady,  if  I  had 
stayed  out  the  storm?  I  left  you  with  three  or  four  devoted 
adherents,  who  had,  moreover,  the  advantage  over  me  of 
either  relationship  or  old  acquaintance  with  Lady  Henry. 
Compared  to  them,  I  could  have  done  nothing  to  shield  you. 
Was  it  not  best  to  withdraw?  Yet  all  the  way  home  I  ac- 
cused myself  bitterly.  Nor  did  I  feel,  when  I  reached  home, 
that  one  who  had  not  grasped  your  hand  under  fire  had  any 
right  to  rest  or  sleep.  But  anxiety  for  you,  regrets  for  my- 
self, took  care  of  that;  I  got  my  deserts. 

"After  all,  when  the  pricks  and  pains  of  this  great  wrench 
are  over,  shall  we  not  all  acknowledge  that  it  is  best  the 
crash  should  have  come  ?  You  have  suffered  and  borne  too 
much.  Now  we  shall  see  you  expand  in  a  freer  and  happier 
life.  The  Duchess  has  asked  me  to  dinner  to-morrow — the 
note  has  just  arrived — so  that  I  shall  soon  have  the  chance 
of  hearing  from  you  some  of  those  details  I  so  much  want 
to  know.     But  before  then  you  will  write? 

"As  for  me,  I  am  full  of  alternate  hopes  and  fears.  Gen- 
eral Fergus,  as  we  walked  home,  was  rather  silent  and  bear- 
ish— I  could  not  flatter  myself  that  he  had  any  friendly  in- 
tentions towards  me  in  his  mind.  But  Montresor  was  more 
than  kind,  and  gave  me  some  fresh  opportunities  of  which 
I  was  very  glad  to  avail  myself.  W^ell,  we  shall  know 
soon. 

"You  told  me  once  that  if,  or  when,  this  happened,  you 

i88 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

would  turn  to  your  pen,  and  that  Dr.  Meredith  would  find 
you  openings.  That  is  not  to  be  regretted,  I  think.  You 
have  great  gifts,  which  will  bring  you  pleasure  in  the  using. 
I  have  got  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  out  of  my  small  ones. 
Did  you  know  that  once,  long  ago,  when  I  was  stationed 
at  Gibraltar,  I  wrote  a  military  novel? 

"No,  I  don't  pity  you  because  you  will  need  to  turn  your 
intellect  to  account.  You  will  be  free,  and  mistress  of  your 
fate.  That,  for  those  who,  like  you  and  me,  are  the  'chil- 
dren of  their  works,'  as  the  Spaniards  say,  is  much. 

"  Dear  friend — kind,  persecuted  friend ! — I  thought  of  you 
in  the  watches  of  the  night — I  think  of  you  this  morning. 
Let  me  soon  have  news  of  you." 

Julie  put  the  letter  down  upon  her  knee.  Her  face 
stiffened.  Nothing  that  she  had  ever  received  from  him 
yet  had  rung  so  false. 

Grief?  Complaint?  No!  Just  a  calm  grasp  of  the 
game — a  quick  playing  of  the  pieces — so  long  as  the  game 
was  there  to  play.  If  he  was  appointed  to  this  mission, 
in  two  or  three  weeks  he  would  be  gone — to  the  heart  of 
Africa.     If  not — 

Anyway,  two  or  three  weeks  were  hers.  Her  mind 
seemed  to  settle  and  steady  itself. 

She  got  up  and  went  once  more  carefully  through  the 
house,  giving  her  attention  to  it.  Yes,  the  whole  had 
character  and  a  kind  of  charm.  The  little  place  would 
make,  no  doubt,  an  interesting  and  distinguished  back- 
ground for  the  life  she  meant  to  put  into  it.  She  v/ould 
move  in  at  once — in  three  days  at  most.  Ways  and 
means  were  for  the  moment  not  difficult.  During  her 
life  with  Lady  Henry  she  had  saved  the  whole  of  her  own 
small  rentes.     Three  hundred  pounds  lay  ready  to  her 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

hand  in  an  investment  easily  realized.  And  she  would 
begin  to  earn  at  once. 

Therese — that  should  be  her  room — the  cheerful,  blue- 
papered  room  with  the  south  window.  Julie  felt  a 
strange  rush  of  feeling  as  she  thought  of  it.  How  curious 
that  these  two — Leonie  and  little  Therese — should  be 
thus  brought  back  into  her  life!  For  she  had  no  doubt 
whatever  that  they  would  accept  with  eagerness  what 
she  had  to  offer.  Her  foster-sister  had  married  a  school- 
master in  one  of  the  Communal  schools  of  Bruges  while 
Julie  was  still  a  girl  at  the  convent.  L^onie's  lame  child 
had  been  much  with  her  grandmother,  old  Madame  Le 
Breton.  To  Julie  she  had  been  at  first  unwelcome  and 
repugnant.  Then  some  quality  in  the  frail  creature  had 
unlocked  the  girl's  sealed  and  often  sullen  heart. 

While  she  had  been  living  with  Lady  Henry,  these 
two,  the  mother  and  child,  had  been  also  in  London;  the 
mother,  now  a  widow,  earning  her  bread  as  an  inferior 
kind  of  French  governess,  the  child  boarded  out  with 
various  persons,  and  generally  for  long  periods  of  the 
year  in  hospital  or  convalescent  home.  To  visit  her  in 
her  white  hospital  bed — to  bring  her  toys  and  flowers,  or 
merely  kisses  and  chat — had  been,  during  these  years, 
the  only  work  of  charity  on  Julie's  part  which  had  been 
wholly  secret,  disinterested,  and  constant. 


XII 


IT  was  a  somewhat  depressed  company  that  found  its 
straggHng  way  into  the  Duchess's  drawing-room  that 
evening  between  tea  and  dinner. 

Miss  Le  Breton  did  not  appear  at  tea.  The  Duchess 
believed  that,  after  her  inspection  of  the  house  in  Heribert 
Street,  JuHe  had  gone  on  to  Bloomsbury  to  find  Madame 
Bornier.  Jacob  Delafield  was  there,  not  much  inchned 
to  talk,  even  as  JuHe's  champion.  And,  one  by  one.  Lady 
Henry's  oldest  habitues,  the  "criminals"  of  the  night  be- 
fore, dropped  in. 

Dr.  Meredith  arrived  with  a  portfolio  containing  what 
seemed  to  be  proof-sheets. 

"Miss  Le  Breton  not  here?"  he  said,  as  he  looked 
round  him. 

The  Duchess  explained  that  she  might  be  in  presently. 
The  great  man  sat  down,  his  portfolio  carefully  placed 
beside  him,  and  drank  his  tea  under  what  seemed  a  cloud 
of  preoccupation. 

Then  appeared  Lord  Lackington  and  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury. 
Montresor  had  sent  a  note  from  the  House  to  say  that 
if  the  debate  would  let  him  he  would  dash  up  to 
Grosvenor  Square  for  some  dinner,  but  could  only  stay 
an  hour. 

"Well,  here  we  are  again  —  the  worst  of  us!"  said 
the  Duchess,  presently,  with  a  sigh  of  bravado,  as  she 

191 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

handed  Lord  Lackington  his  cup  of  tea  and  sank  back  in 
her  chair  to  enjoy  her  own. 

"Speak  for  yourselves,  please,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid's  soft, 
smiling  voice,  as  he  daintily  relieved  his  mustache  of 
some  of  the  Duchess's  cream. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  the  Duchess,  throwing 
up  a  hand  in  mock  annoyance;  "but  why  weren't  you 
there?" 

"  I  knew  better." 

"The  people  who  keep  out  of  scrapes  are  not  the  peo- 
ple one  loves,"  was  the  Duchess's  peevish  reply. 

"Let  him  alone,"  said  Lord  Lackington,  coming  for 
some  more  tea-cake.  "He  will  get  his  deserts.  Next 
Wednesday  he  will  be  tete-a-tete  with  Lady  Henry." 

"Lady  Henry  is  going  to  Torquay  to-morrow,"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  quietly. 

"Ah!" 

There  was  a  general  chorus  of  interrogation,  amid 
which  the  Duchess  made  herself  heard. 

"Then  you've  seen  her?" 

"  To-day,  for  twenty  minutes — all  she  was  able  to  bear. 
She  was  ill  yesterday.  She  is  naturally  worse  to-day. 
As  to  her  state  of  mind — " 

The  circle  of  faces  drew  eagerly  nearer. 

"Oh,  it's  war,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  nodding — "undoubt- 
edly war — upon  the  Cave — if  there  is  a  Cave." 

"Well,  poor  things,  we  must  have  something  to  shelter 
us!"  cried  the  Duchess.  "The  Cave  is  being  aired  to- 
day." 

The  interrogating  faces  turned  her  way.  The  Duchess 
explained  the  situation,  and  drew  the  house  in  Heri- 
bert  Street — with  its  Cyclops-eye  of  a  dormer  window, 

192 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

and  its  Ionian  columns  —  on  the  tea  -  cloth  with  her 
nail. 

"Ah,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  crossing  his  knees  reflectively. 
"Ah,  that  makes  it  serious." 

"  Julie  must  have  a  place  to  live  in,"  said  the  Duchess, 
stiffly. 

"  I  suppose  Lady  Henry  would  reply  that  there  are 
still  a  few  houses  in  London  which  do  not  belong  to  her 
kinsman,  the  Duke  of  Crowborough." 

"  Not  perhaps  to  be  had  for  the  lending,  and  ready  to 
step  into  at  a  day's  notice,"  said  Lord  Lackington,  with 
his  queer  smile,  like  the  play  of  sharp  sunbeams  through 
a  mist.  "That's  the  worst  of  our  class.  The  margin 
between  us  and  calamity  is  too  wide.  We  risk  too  little. 
Nobody  goes  to  the  workhouse." 

Sir  Wilfrid  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Do  I  catch 
your  meaning?"  he  said,  dropping  his  voice;  "is  it  that 
if  there  had  been  no  Duchess,  and  no  Heribert  Street, 
Miss  Le  Breton  would  have  managed  to  put  up  with 
Lady  Henry?" 

Lord  Lackington  smiled  again.  "I  think  it  proba- 
ble. ...  As  it  is,  however,  we  are  all  the  gainers.  We 
shall  now  see  Miss  Julie  at  her  ease  and  ours." 

"You  have  been  for  some  time  acquainted  with  Miss 
Le  Breton?" 

"Oh,  some  time.  I  don't  exactly  remember.  Lady 
Henry,  of  course,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  as  she  is  of 
yours.  Sometimes  she  is  rude  to  me.  Then  I  stay 
away.  But  I  always  go  back.  She  and  I  can  discuss 
things  and  people  that  nobody  else  recollects — no,  as 
far  as  that's  concerned,  you're  not  in  it.  Bury.  Only 
this  winter,  somehow,  I  have  often  gone  round  to  see 
:.<  193 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry,  and  have  found  Miss  Le  Breton  instead 
so  attractive — " 

"Precisely,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  laughing;  "the  whole 
case  in  a  nutshell." 

"What  puzzles  me,"  continued  his  companion,  in  a 
musing  voice,  "is  how  she  can  be  so  English  as  she  is — 
with  her  foreign  bringing  up.  She  has  a  most  extraor- 
dinary instinct  for  people — people  in  London — and  their 
relations.  I  have  never  known  her  make  a  mistake.  Yet 
it  is  only  five  years  since  she  began  to  come  to  England 
at  all;  and  she  has  lived  but  three  with  Lady  Henry. 
It  was  clear,  I  thought,  that  neither  she  nor  Lady 
Henry  wished  to  be  questioned.  But,  do  you,  for  in- 
stance— I  have  no  doubt  Lady  Henry  tells  you  more 
than  she  tells  me — do  you  know  anything  of  Madem- 
oiselle Julie's  antecedents?" 

Sir  Wilfrid  started.  Through  his  mind  ran  the  same 
reflection  as  that  to  which  the  Duke  had  given  expres- 
sion in  the  morning — ''she  ought  to  reveal  herself/"  Julie 
Le  Bre'ton  had  no  right  to  leave  this  old  man  in  his 
ignorance,  while  those  surrounding  him  were  in  the 
secret.  Thereby  she  made  a  spectacle  of  her  mother's 
father — made  herself  and  him  the  sport  of  curious  eyes. 
For  who  could  help  watching  them — every  movement, 
every  word?     There  was  a  kind  of  indelicacy  in  it. 

His  reply  was  rather  hesitating.  "Yes,  I  happen  to 
know  something.  But  I  feel  sure  Miss  Le  Breton  would 
prefer  to  tell  you  herself.  Ask  her.  While  she  was 
with  Lady  Henry  there  were  reasons  for  silence — " 

"But,  of  course,  I'll  ask  her,"  said  his  companion, 
eagerly,  "if  you  suppose  that  I  may.  A  more  hungry 
curiosity  was  never  raised  in  a  human  breast  than  in  mine 

194 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  regard  to  this  dear  lady.  So  charming,  handsome, 
and  well  bred — and  so  forlorn!  That's  the  paradox  of 
it.  The  personality  presupposes  a  milieu — else  how  pro- 
duce it?  And  there  is  no  milieu,  save  this  little  circle 
she  has  made  for  herself  through  Lady  Henry.  .  .  . 
Ah,  and  you  think  I  may  ask  her?  I  will — that's  flat — 
I  will!" 

And  the  old  man  gleefully  rubbed  his  hands,  face  and 
form  full  of  the  vivacity  of  his  imperishable  youth. 

"Choose  your  time  and  place,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  hasti- 
ly.    "There  are  very  sad  and  tragic  circumstances — " 

Lord  Lackington  looked  at  him  and  nodded  gayly,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "You  distrust  me  with  the  sex?  Me, 
who  have  had  the  whip-hand  of  them  since  my  cradle!" 

Suddenly  the  Duchess  interrupted-.  "Sir  Wilfrid,  you 
have  seen  Lady  Henry;  which  did  she  mind  most — the 
coming-in  or  the  coffee?" 

Bury  returned,  smiling,  to  the  tea-table. 

"The  coming-in  would  have  been  nothing  if  it  had 
led  quickly  to  the  going -out.  It  was  the  coffee  that 
ruined  you." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Duchess,  pouting — "it  meant  that 
it  was  possible  for  us  to  enjoy  ourselves  without  Lady 
Henry.     That  was  the  offence." 

"Precisely.  It  showed  that  you  were  enjoying  your- 
selves. Otherwise  there  would  have  been  no  lingering, 
and  no  coffee." 

"I  never  knew  coffee  so  fatal  before,"  sighed  the  Duch- 
ess. "And  now" — it  was  evident  that  she  shrank  from 
the  answer  to  her  own  question — "she  is  really  irrec- 
oncilable?" 

"Absolutely.     Let  me  beg  you  to  take  it  for  granted." 

195 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"She  won't  see  any  of  us — not  me?" 

Sir  Wilfrid  hesitated. 

"Make  the  Duke  your  ambassador." 

The  Duchess  laughed,  and  flushed  a  little. 

"And  Mr.  Montresor?" 

"Ah,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid  in  another  tone,  "that's  not  to 
be  lightly  spoken  of." 

"You  don't  mean — " 

"How  many  years  has  that  lasted?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid, 
meditatively. 

"Thirty,  I  think — if  not  more.  It  was  Lady  Henry 
who  told  him  of  his  son's  death,  when  his  wife  daren't 
do  it." 

There  was  a  silence.  Montresor  had  lost  his  only  son, 
a  subaltern  in  the  Lancers,  in  the  action  of  Alumbagh, 
on  the  way  to  the  relief  of  Lucknow. 

Then  the  Duchess  broke  out : 

"I  know  that  you  think  in  your  heart  of  hearts  that 
Julie  has  been  in  fault,  and  that  we  have  all  behaved 
abominably!" 

"My  dear  lady,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  after  a  moment,  "in 
Persia  we  believe  in  fate  ;  I  have  brought  the  trick 
home." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  it!"  exclaimed  Lord  Lackington — 
"that's  it!  When  Lady  Henry  wanted  a  companion — 
and  fate  brought  her  Miss  Le  Breton — " 

"Last  night's  coffee  was  already  drunk,"  put  in  Sir 
Wilfrid. 

Meredith's  voice,  raised  and  a  trifle  harsh,  made  itself 
heard. 

"Why  you  should  dignify  an  ugly  jealousy  by  fine 
words  I  don't  know.     For  some  women — women  like 

196 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

our  old  friend — gratitude  is  hard.     That  is  the  moral  of 
this  tale." 

"The  only  one?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  not  without  a  mock- 
ing twist  of  the  lip. 

"The  only  one  that  matters.  Lady  Henry  had  found, 
or  might  have  found,  a  daughter — " 

"I  understand  she  bargained  for  a  companion." 

"Very  well.  Then  she  stands  upon  her  foolish  rights, 
and  loses  both  daughter  and  companion.  At  seventy, 
life  doesn't  forgive  you  a  blunder  of  that  kind." 

Sir  Wilfrid  silently  shook  his  head.  Meredith  threw 
back  his  blanched  mane  of  hair,  his  deep  eyes  kindling 
under  the  implied  contradiction. 

"I  am  an  old  comrade  of  Lady  Henry's,"  he  said, 
quickly.  "My  record,  you'll  find,  comes  next  to  yours. 
Bury.  But  if  Lady  Henry  is  determined  to  make  a 
quarrel  of  this,  she  must  make  it.     I  regret  nothing." 

"What  madness  has  seized  upon  all  these  people?" 
thought  Bury,  as  he  withdrew  from  the  discussion.  The 
fire,  the  unwonted  fire,  in  Meredith's  speech  and  aspect, 
amazed  him.  From  the  corner  to  which  he  had  retreat- 
ed he  studied  the  face  of  the  journalist.  It  was  a  face 
subtly  and  strongly  lined  by  much  living — of  the  intel- 
lectual, however,  rather  than  the  physical  sort;  breath- 
ing now  a  studious  dignity,  the  effect  of  the  broad  sweep 
of  brow  under  the  high-peaked  lines  cf  grizzled  hair,  and 
now  broken,  tempestuous,  scornful,  changing  with  the 
pliancy  of  an  actor.  The  head  was  sunk  a  little  in  the 
shoulders,  as  though  dragged  back  by  its  own  weight. 
The  form  which  it  commanded  had  the  movements  of  a 
man  no  less  accustomed  to  rule  in  his  own  sphere  than 
Montresor  himself. 

197 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

To  Sir  Wilfrid  the  famous  editor  was  still  personally 
mysterious,  after  many  years  of  intermittent  acquaint- 
ance. He  was  apparently  unmarried;  or  was  there  per- 
haps a  wife,  picked  up  in  a  previous  state  of  existence, 
and  hidden  away  with  her  offspring  at  Clapham  or 
Hornsey  or  Peckham?  Bury  could  remember,  years 
before,  a  dowdy  old  sister,  to  whom  Lady  Henry  had 
been  on  occasion  formally  polite.  Otherwise,  nothing. 
What  were  the  great  man's  origins  and  antecedents — 
his  family,  school,  university  ?  Sir  "Wilfrid  did  not  know ; 
he  did  not  believe  that  any  one  knew.  An  amazing 
mastery  of  the  German,  and,  it  was  said,  the  Russian 
tongues,  suggested  a  foreign  education;  but  neither  on 
this  ground  nor  any  other  connected  with  his  personal 
history  did  Meredith  encourage  the  inquirer.  It  was 
often  reported  that  he  was  of  Jewish  descent,  and  there 
were  certain  traits,  both  of  feature  and  character,  that 
lent  support  to  the  notion.  If  so,  the  strain  was  that  of 
Heine  or  Disraeli,  not  the  strain  of  Commerce. 

At  any  rate,  he  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  men  of 
his  day  —  the  owner,  through  The  New  Rambler,  of  an 
influence  which  now  for  some  fifteen  years  had  ranked 
among  the  forces  to  be  reckoned  with.  A  man  in  whom 
politics  assumed  a  tinge  of  sombre  poetry;  a  man  of  ha- 
treds, ideals,  indignations,  yet  of  habitually  sober  speech. 
As  to  passions,  Sir  Wilfrid  could  have  sworn  that,  wife 
or  no  wife,  the  man  who  could  show  that  significance  of 
mouth  and  eye  had  not  gone  through  life  without  know- 
ing the  stress  and  shock  of  them. 

Was  he,  too,  beguiled  by  this  woman? — he,  too?  For 
a  little  behind  him,  beside  the  Duchess,  sat  Jacob  Dela- 
field;  and,  during  his  painful  interview  that  day  with 

198 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lady  Henry,  Sir  Wilfrid  had  been  informed  of  several 
things  with  regard  to  Jacob  Delafield  he  had  not  known 
before.  So  she  had  refused  him  —  this  lady  who  was 
now  the  heart  of  this  whirlwind?  Permanently?  Lady 
Henry  had  poured  scorn  on^the  notion.  She  was  merely 
sure  of  him;  could  keep  him  in  a  string  to  play  with  as 
she  chose.  Meanwhile  the  handsome  soldier  was  metal 
more  attractive.  Sir  Wilfrid  reflected,  with  an  inward 
shrug,  that,  once  let  a  woman  give  herself  to  such  a  fury 
as  possessed  Lady  Henry,  and  there  did  not  seem  to  be 
much  to  choose  between  her  imaginings  and  those  of  the 
most  vulgar  of  her  sex. 

So  Jacob  could  be  played  with  —  whistled  on  and 
whistled  ofif  as  Miss  Le  Breton  chose?  Yet  his  was  not 
a  face  that  suggested  it,  any  more  than  the  face  of  Dr. 
Meredith.  The  young  man's  countenance  was  gradually 
changing  its  aspect  for  Sir  Wilfrid,  in  a  somewhat  singular 
way,  as  old  impressions  of  his  character  died  awa}^  and 
new  ones  emerged.  The  face,  now,  often  recalled  to 
Bury  a  portrait  by  some  Holbeinesque  master,  which  he 
had  seen  once  in  the  Basle  Museum  and  never  forgotten. 
A  large,  thin-lipped  mouth  that,  without  weakness,  sug- 
gested patience;  the  long  chin  of  a  man  of  v/ill;  nose, 
bluntly  cut  at  the  tip,  yet  in  the  nostril  and  bridge  most 
delicate;  grayish  eyes,  with  a  veil  of  reverie  drawn,  as  it 
were,  momentarily  across  them,  and  showing  behind  the 
veil  a  kind  of  stern  sweetness ;  fair  hair  low  on  the  brow, 
which  was  heavy,  and  made  a  massive  shelter  for  the 
eyes.  So  looked  the  young  German  who  had  perhaps 
heard  Melanchthon;  so,  in  this  middle  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, looked  Jacob  Delafield.  No,  anger  makes  obtuse; 
that,  no  doubt,  was  Lady  Henry's  case.     At  any  rate, 

IQQ  ' 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

in  Delafield's  presence   her  theory  did  not   commend 
itself. 

But  if  Delafield  had  not  echoed  them,  the  little 
Duchess  had  received  Meredith's  remarks  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Regret!  No,  indeed!  Why  should  we  regret  any- 
thing, except  that  Julie  has  been  miserable  so  long?  She 
has  had  a  bad  time.  Every  day  and  all  day.  Ah,  you 
don't  know — none  of  you.  You  haven't  seen  all  the 
little  things  as  I  have." 

"The  errands,  and  the  dogs,"  said  Sir  William,  slyly. 

The  Duchess  threw  him  a  glance  half  conscious,  half 
resentful,  and  went  on: 

"It  has  been  one  small  torture  after  another.  Even 
when  a  person's  old  you  can't  bear  more  than  a  certain 
amount,  can  you?  You  oughtn't  to.  No,  let's  be  thank- 
ful it's  all  over,  and  Julie — our  dear,  delightful  Julie — 
who  has  done  everybody  in  this  room  all  sorts  of  kind- 
nesses, hasn't  she?" 

An  assenting  murmur  ran  round  the  circle. 

"Julie's  free  I  Only  she's  very  lonely.  We  must  see  to 
that,  mustn't  we?  Lady  Henry  can  buy  another  com- 
panion to-morrow — she  will.  She  has  heaps  of  money 
and  heaps  of  friends,  and  she'll  tell  her  own  story  to 
them  all.     But  Julie  has  only  us.     If  we  desert  her — " 

"Desert  her!"  said  a  voice  in  the  distance,  half  amused, 
half  electrical.     Bury  thought  it  was  Jacob's. 

"Of  course  we  sha'n't  desert  her!"  cried  the  Duchess. 
"We  shall  rally  round  her  and  carry  her  through.  If 
Lady  Henry  makes  herself  disagreeable,  then  we'll  fight. 
If  not,  we'll  let  her  cool  down.  Oh,  Julie,  darling — here 
you  are!" 

200 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

The  Duchess  sprang  up  and  caught  her  entering 
friend  by  the  hand. 

"And  here  are  we,"  with  a  wave  round  the  circle. 
"This  is  your  court — your  St.  Germain." 

"So  you  mean  me  to  die  in  exile,"  said  Julie,  with  a 
quavering  sm.ile,  as  she  drew  off  her  gloves.  Then  she 
looked  at  her  friends.  "Oh,  how  good  of  you  all  to 
come!  Lord  Lackington!"  She  went  up  to  him  im- 
petuously, and  he,  taken  by  surprise,  yielded  his  hands, 
which  she  took  in  both  hers.  "It  was  foohsh,  I  know, 
but  you  don't  think  it  was  so  bad,  do  you?" 

She  gazed  up  at  him  wistfully.  Her  lithe  form  seemed 
almost  to  cling  to  the  old  man.  Instinctively,  Jacob, 
Meredith,  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  withdrew  their  eyes.  The 
room  held  its  breath.  As  for  Lord  Lackington,  he  col- 
ored like  a  girl. 

"No,  no;  a  mistake,  perhaps,  for  all  of  us;  but  more 
ours  than  yours,  mademoiselle — much  more!  Don't  fret. 
Indeed,  you  look  as  if  you  hadn't  slept,  and  that  mustn't 
be.  You  must  think  that,  sooner  or  later,  it  was  bound 
to  come.  Lady  Henry  will  soften  in  time,  and  you  will 
know  so  well  how  to  meet  her.  But  now  we  have  your 
future  to  think  of.  Only  sit  down.  You  mustn't  look 
so  tired.     Where  have  you  been  wandering?" 

And  with  a  stately  courtesy,  her  hand  still  in  his,  he 
took  her  to  a  chair  and  helped  her  to  remove  her  heavy 
cloak. 

"My  future!"  She  shivered  as  she  dropped  into  her 
seat. 

How  weary  and  beaten-down  she  looked — the  heroine 
of  such  a  turmoil!  Her  eyes  travelled  from  face  to  face, 
shrinking — unconsciously  appealing.     In  the  dim,  soft 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

color  of  the  room,  her  white  face  and  hands,  striking 
against  her  black  dress,  were  strangely  living  and  sig- 
nificant. They  spoke  command  —  through  weakness, 
through  sex.  For  that,  in  spite  of  intellectual  distinc- 
tion, was,  after  all,  her  secret.  She  breathed  femininity 
— the  old  common  spell  upon  the  blood. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you're  all  so  kind  to  me,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  Let  me  disappear.  I  can  go  into  the  country 
and  earn  my  living  there.  Then  I  shall  be  no  more 
trouble." 

Unseen  himself,  Sir  Wilfrid  surveyed  her.  He  thought 
her  a  consummate  actress,  and  revelled  in  each  new 
phase. 

The  Duchess,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  began  to  scold 
her  friend.     Delafield  bent  over  Julie  Le  Breton's  chair. 

"Have  you  had  some  tea?" 

The  smile  in  his  eyes  provoked  a  faint  answer  in  hers. 
While  she  was  declaring  that  she  was  in  no  need  what- 
ever of  physical  sustenance,  Meredith  advanced  with 
his  portfolio.  He  looked  the  editor  merely,  and  spoke 
with  a  business-like  brevity. 

"I  have  brought  the  sheets  of  the  new  Shelley  book, 
Miss  Le  Breton.  It  is  due  for  publication  on  the  2 2d. 
Kindly  let  me  have  your  review  within  a  week.  It  may 
run  to  two  columns — possibly  even  two  and  a  half.  You 
will  find  here  also  the  particulars  of  one  or  two  other 
things — let  me  know,  please,  what  you  will  undertake." 

Julie  put  out  a  languid  hand  for  the  portfolio. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  trust  me." 

"What  do  you  want  of  her?"  said  Lord  Lackington, 
briskly.  "'Chatter  about  Harriet?'  I  could  write  you 
reams  of  that  myself.     I  once  sav/  Harriet." 

202 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Ah!" 

Meredith,  with  whom  the  Shelley  cult  was  a  deep- 
rooted  passion,  started  and  looked  round;  then  sharply 
repressed  the  eagerness  on  his  tongue  and  sat  down  by 
Miss  Le  Breton,  with  whom,  in  a  lowered  voice,  he  began 
to  discuss  the  points  to  be  noticed  in  the  sheets  handed 
over  to  her.  No  stronger  proof  could  he  have  given  of 
his  devotion  to  her.  Juhe  knew  it,  and,  rousing  herself, 
she  met  him  with  a  soft  attention  and  docility;  thus 
tacitly  relinquishing,  as  Bury  noticed  with  amusement, 
all  talk  of  "disappearance." 

Only  with  himself,  he  suspected,  was  the  fair  lady  ill 
at  ease.  And,  indeed,  it  was  so.  Julie,  by  her  pallor, 
her  humiUty,  had  thrown  herself,  as  it  were,  into  the 
arms  of  her  friends,  and  each  was  now  vying  with  the 
other  as  to  how  best  to  cheer  and  console  her.  Mean- 
while her  attention  was  really  bent  upon  her  critic — 
her  only  critic  in  this  assembly;  and  he  discovered 
various  attempts  to  draw  him  into  conversation.  And 
when  Lord  Lackington,  discomfited  by  Meredith,  had 
finished  discharging  his  hterary  recollections  upon  him, 
Sir  Wilfrid  became  complaisant  ;  Julie  slipped  in  and 
held  him. 

Leaning  her  chin  on  both  hands,  she  bent  towards  him, 
fixing  him  with  her  eyes.  And  in  spite  of  his  antag- 
onism he  no  longer  felt  himself  strong  enough  to  deny 
that  the  eyes  were  beautiful,  especially  with  this  tragic 
note  in  them  of  fatigue  and  pain. 

" Sir  Wilfrid  " — she  spoke  in  low  entreaty — "you  must 
help  me  to  prevent  any  breach  between  Lady  Henry  and 
Mr.  Montresor." 

He  looked  at  her  gayly. 

203 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  fear,"  he  said,  "you  are  too  late.  That  point  is 
settled,  as  I  understand  from  herself." 

"Surely  not — so  soon!" 

"There  was  an  exchange  of  letters  this  morning." 

"Oh,  but  you  can  prevent  it — you  must!"  She  clasp- 
ed her  hands. 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  fear  you  must  accept  it. 
Their  relation  was  a  matter  of  old  habit.  Like  other 
things  old  and  frail,  it  bears  shock  and  disturbance 
badly." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  raising  her  hands  and 
letting  them  fall  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

One  little  stroke  of  punishment — just  one!  Surely 
there  was  no  cruelty  in  that.  Sir  Wilfrid  caught  the 
Horatian  lines  dancing  through  his  head : 

"Just  oblige  me  and  touch 

With  your  wand  that  minx  Chloe — 
But  don't  hurt  her  much!" 

Yet  here  was  Jacob  interposing! — Jacob,  who  had 
evidently  been  watching  his  mild  attempt  at  castigation, 
no  doubt  with  disapproval.  Lover  or  no  lover — what 
did  the  man  expect?  Under  his  placid  exterior,  Sir  Wil- 
frid's mind  was,  in  truth,  hot  with  sympathy  for  the  old 
and  helpless. 

Delafield  bent  over  Miss  Le  Breton. 

"You  will  go  and  rest?     Evelyn  advises  it." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  most  of  the  party  rose,  too. 

"Good-bye — good-bye,"  said  Lord  Lackington,  offer- 
ing her  a  cordial  hand.  "  Rest  and  forget.  Everything 
blows  over.  And  at  Easter  you  must  come  to  me  in  the 
country.     Blanche   will   be   with   me,   and   my   grand- 

204 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

daughter  Aileen,  if  I  can  tempt  them  away  from  Italy. 
Aileen's  a  little  fairy;  you'd  be  charmed  with  her.  Now 
mind,  that's  a  promise.     You  must  certainly  come." 

The  Duchess  had  paused  in  her  farewell  nothings  with 
Sir  Wilfrid  to  observe  her  friend.  Julie,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground,  murmured  thanks;  and  Lord  Lackington, 
straight  as  a  dart  to-night,  carrying  his  seventy-five 
years  as  though  they  were  the  merest  trifle,  made  a  state- 
ly and  smiling  exit.  Julie  looked  round  upon  the  faces 
left.  In  her  own  heart  she  read  the  same  judgment  as  in 
their  eyes:  "  The  old  man  must  know !" 

The  Duke  came  into  the  drawing-room  half  an  hour 
later  in  quest  of  his  wife.  He  was  about  to  leave  town 
by  a  night  train  for  the  north,  and  his  temper  was,  ap- 
parently, far  from  good. 

The  Duchess  was  stretched  on  the  sofa  in  the  firelight, 
her  hands  behind  her  head,  dreaming.  Whether  it  was 
the  sight  of  so  much  ease  that  jarred  on  the  Duke's  ruffled 
nerves  or  no,  certain  it  is  that  he  inflicted  a  thorny  good- 
bye. He  had  seen  Lady  Henry,  he  said,  and  the  reality 
was  even  worse  than  he  had  supposed.  There  was  ab- 
solutely nothing  to  be  said  for  Miss  Le  Breton,  and  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself  to  have  been  so  weakly  talked 
over  in  the  matter  of  the  house.  His  word  once  given, 
of  course,  there  was  an  end  of  it — for  six  months.  After 
that,  Miss  Le  Breton  must  provide  for  herself.  Mean- 
while, Lady  Henry  refused  to  receive  the  Duchess,  and 
W01  .d  be  some  time  before  she  forgave  himself.  It  was 
ail  most  annoying,  and  he  was  thankful  to  be  going  away, 
for.  Lady  Rose  or  no  Lady  Rose,  he  really  could  not 
have  entertained  the  lady  with  civility. 

205 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind,  Freddie,"  said  the  Duchess, 
springing  up.  "She'll  be  gone  before  you  come  back, 
and  I'll  look  after  her." 

The  Duke  offered  a  rather  sulky  embrace,  walked  to 
the  door,  and  came  back. 

"I  really  very  much  dislike  this  kind  of  gossip,"  he 
said,  stiffly,  "but  perhaps  I  had  better  say  that  Lady 
Henry  believes  that  the  affair  with  Delafield  was  only 
one  of  several.  She  talks  of  a  certain  Captain  Wark- 
worth — ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duchess,  nodding.  "I  know;  but  he 
sha'n't  have  Julie." 

Her  smile  completed  the  Duke's  annoyance, 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  I  beg,  Evelyn — I  in- 
sist— that  you  leave  Miss  Le  Breton's  love  affairs  alone." 

"You  forget,  Freddie,  that  she  is  my  friend." 

The  little  creature  fronted  him,  all  wilfulness  and 
breathing  hard,  her  small  hands  clasped  on  her  breast. 

With  an  angry  exclamation  the  Duke  departed. 

At  half -past  eight  a  hansom  dashed  up  to  Crow- 
borough  House.     Montresor  emerged. 

He  found  the  two  ladies  and  Jacob  Delafield  just  be- 
ginning dinner,  and  stayed  with  them  an  hour;  but  it 
was  not  an  hour  of  pleasure.  The  great  man  was  tired 
with  work  and  debate,  depressed  also  by  the  quarrel  with 
his  old  friend.  Julie  did  not  dare  to  put  questions,  and 
guiltily  shrank  into  herself.  She  divined  that  a  great 
price  was  being  paid  on  her  behalf,  and  must  needs  bit- 
terly ask  whether  anything  that  she  could  offer  or  plead 
was  worth  it — bitterly  suspect,  also,  that  the  query  had 
passed  through  other  minds  than  her  own. 

206 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

After  dinner,  as  Montresor  rose  with  the  Duchess  to 
take  his  leave,  Julie  got  a  word  with  him  in  the  corridor. 

"You  will  give  me  ten  minutes'  talk?"  she  said,  lifting 
her  pale  face  to  him.  "You  mustn't,  mustn't  quarrel 
with  Lady  Henry  because  of  me." 

He  drew  himself  up,  perhaps  with  a  touch  of  haughti- 
ness. 

"  Lady  Henry  could  end  it  in  a  moment.  Don't,  I  beg 
of  you,  trouble  your  head  about  the  matter.  Even  as 
an  old  friend,  one  must  be  allowed  one's  self-respect." 

"  But  mayn't  I — " 

"Nearly  ten  o'clock!"  he  cried,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"I  must  be  off  this  moment.  So  you  are  going  to 
the  house  in  Heribert  Street?  I  remember  Lady  Mary 
Leicester  perfectly.  As  soon  as  you  are  settled,  tell 
me.  and  I  will  present  myself.  Meanwhile  " — he  smiled 
and  bent  his  black  head  towards  her — "look  in  to- 
morrow's papers  for  some  interesting  news." 

He  sprang  into  his  hansom  and  was  gone. 

Julie  went  slowly  up  -  stairs.  Of  course  she  under- 
stood. The  long  intrigue  had  reached  its  goal,  and  with- 
in twelve  hours  the  Times  would  announce  the  appoint- 
ment of  Captain  Warkworth,  D.S.O.,  to  the  command 
of  the  Mokembe  military  mission.  He  would  have  ob- 
tained his  heart's  desire — through  her. 

How  true  were  those  last  words,  perhaps  only  Julie 
knew.  She  looked  back  upon  all  the  manoeuvres  and 
influences  she  had  brought  to  bear — flattery  here,  in- 
terest or  reciprocity  there,  the  lures  of  Crowborough 
House,  the  prestige  of  Lady  Henry's  drawing-room. 
Wheel  by  wheel  she  had  built  up  her  cunning  machine, 
and  the  machine  had  worked.     No  doubt  the  last  com- 

207 


Ladg    Rose's   Daughter 

pleting  touch  had  been  given  the  night  before.  Her  cul- 
minating offence  against  Lady  Henry — the  occasion  of 
her  disgrace  and  banishment — had  been  to  Warkworth 
the  stepping-stone  of  fortune. 

What  "gossamer  girl "  could  have  done  so  much ?  She 
threw  back  her  head  proudly  and  heard  the  beating  of 
her  heart. 

Lady  Henry  was  fiercely  forgotten.  She  opened  the 
drawing-room  door,  absorbed  in  a  counting  of  the  hours 
till  she  and  Warkworth  should  meet. 

Then,  amid  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  Duchess's 
drawing-room,  Jacob  Delafield  rose  and  came  towards 
her.  Her  exaltation  dropped  in  a  moment.  Some  test- 
ing, penetrating  influence  seemed  to  breathe  from  this 
man,  which  filled  her  with  a  moral  discomfort,  a  curious 
restlessness.  Did  he  guess  the  nature  of  her  feeling  for 
Warkworth?  Was  he  acquainted  with  the  efforts  she 
had  been  making  for  the  young  soldier?  She  could  not 
be  sure;  he  had  never  given  her  the  smallest  sign.  Yet 
she  divined  that  few  things  escaped  him  where  the  per- 
sons who  touched  his  feelings  were  concerned.  And 
Evelyn — the  dear  chatterbox — certainly  suspected. 

"  How  tired  you  are!"  he  said  to  her,  gently.  "  What 
a  day  it  has  been  for  you !  Evelyn  is  writing  let- 
ters. Let  me  bring  you  the  papers — and  please  don't 
talk." 

She  submitted  to  a  sofa,  to  an  adjusted  light,  to  the 
papers  on  her  knee.  Then  Delafield  withdrew  and  took 
up  a  book. 

She  could  not  rest,  however;  visions  of  the  morrow 
and  of  Warkworth's  triumphant  looks  kept  flashing 
through  her.     Yet   all  the   while   Delafield's   presence 

208 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

haunted  her — she  could  not  forget  him,  and  presently 
she  addressed  him. 

"Mr.  Delafield!" 

He  heard  the  low  voice  and  came. 

"I  have  never  thanked  you  for  your  goodness  last 
night.     I  do  thank  you  now — most  earnestly." 

"  You  needn't.  You  know  very  well  what  I  would  do 
to  serve  you  if  I  could." 

"Even  when  you  think  me  in  the  wrong?"  said  Julie, 
with  a  little,  hysterical  laugh. 

Her  conscience  smote  her.  Why  provoke  this  in- 
timate talk — wantonly — with  the  man  she  had  made 
suffer?  Yet  her  restlessness,  which  was  partly  nervous 
fatigue,  drove  her  on. 

Delafield  flushed  at  her  words. 

"How  have  I  given  you  cause  to  say  that?" 

"Oh,  you  are  very  transparent.  One  sees  that  you 
are  always  troubling  yourself  about  the  right  and  wrong 
of  things." 

"All  very  well  for  one's  self,"  said  Delafield,  trying  to 
laugh.  "  I  hope  I  don't  seem  to  you  to  be  setting  up  as 
a  judge  of  other  people's  right  and  wrong?" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  do!"  she  said,  passionately.  Then, 
as  he  winced,  "  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  you 
do  judge  —  it  is  in  your  nature  —  and  other  people 
feel  it." 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  such  a  prig,"  said  Delafield, 
humbly.     "It  is  true  I  am  always  puzzling  over  things." 

Julie  was  silent.  She  was  indeed  secretly  convinced 
that  he  no  more  approved  the  escapade  of  the  night  be- 
fore than  did  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury.  Through  the  whole 
evening  she  had  been  conscious  of  a  watchful  anxiety  and 
«4  209 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

resistance  on  his  part.  Yet  he  had  stood  by  her  to  the 
end — so  warmly,  so  faithfully. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  Julie  felt  a  fresh  pang  of 
remorse,  perhaps  of  alarm.  Why  had  she  called  him  to 
her?  What  had  they  to  do  with  each  other?  But  he 
soon  reassured  her.  He  began  to  talk  of  Meredith,  and 
the  work  before  her — the  important  and  glorious  work, 
as  he  naively  termed  it,  of  the  writer. 

And  presently  he  turned  upon  her  with  sudden  feeling. 

"  You  accused  me,  just  now,  of  judging  what  I  have  no 
business  to  judge.  If  you  think  that  I  regret  the  sev- 
erance of  your  relation  with  Lady  Henry,  you  are  quite, 
quite  mistaken.  It  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life  this 
last  year  to  see  you  free — mistress  of  your  own  life.  It 
— it  made  me  mad  that  you  should  be  ordered  about 
like  a  child — dependent  upon  another  person's  will." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  I  know.  That  revolts  you  always — any  form  of  com- 
mand? Evelyn  tells  me  that  you  carry  it  to  curious 
lengths  with  your  servants  and  laborers." 

He  drew  back,  evidently  disconcerted. 

"Oh,  I  try  some  experiments.  They  generally  break 
down." 

"You  try  to  do  without  servants,  Evelyn  says,  as 
much  as  possible." 

"Well,  if  I  do  try,  I  don't  succeed,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"But" — his  eyes  kindled — "isn't  it  worth  while,  during 
a  bit  of  one's  life,  to  escape,  if  one  can,  from  some  of 
the  paraphernalia  in  which  we  are  all  smothered?  Look 
there!  What  right  have  I  to  turn  my  fellow-creatures 
into  bedizened  automata  like  that?" 

And  he  threw  out  an  accusing  hand  towards  the  two 

2IO 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

powdered  footmen,  who  were  removing  the  coffee-cups 
and  making  up  the  fire  in  the  next  room,  while  the  mag- 
nificent groom  of  the  chambers  stood  like  a  statue,  re- 
ceiving some  orders  from  the  Duchess. 

Julie,  however,  showed  no  sympathy. 

"They  are  only  automata  in  the  drawing-room.  Down- 
stairs they  are  as  much  alive  as  you  or  I." 

"Well,  let  us  put  it  that  I  prefer  other  kinds  of  luxury," 
said  Delafield.  "However,  as  I  appear  to  have  none  of 
the  qualities  necessary  to  carry  out  my  notions,  they 
don't  get  very  far." 

"You  would  like  to  shake  hands  with  the  butler?" 
said  Julie,  musing.  "I  knew  a  case  of  that  kind.  But 
the  butler  gave  warning." 

Delafield  laughed. 

"Perhaps  the  simpler  thing  would  be  to  do  without 
the  butler." 

"  I  am  curious,"  she  said,  smiling — "  very  curious.  Sir 
Wilfrid,  for  instance,  talks  of  going  down  to  stay  with 
you?" 

"Why  not?  He'd  come  off  extremely  well.  There's 
an  ex-butler,  and  an  ex-cook  of  Chudleigh's  settled  in  the 
village.  When  I  have  a  visitor,  they  come  in  and  take 
possession.     We  live  like  fighting-cocks." 

"So  nobody  knows  that,  in  general,  you  live  like  a 
workman?" 

Delafield  looked  impatient. 

"Somebody  seems  to  have  been  cramming  Evelyn 
with  ridiculous  tales,  and  she's  been  spreading  them.  I 
must  have  it  out  with  her." 

"I  expect  there  is  a  good  deal  in  them,"  said  Julie. 
Then,  unexpectedly,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  gave  him  a 

211 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

long  and  rather  strange  look.  "  Why  do  you  dislike  hav- 
ing servants  and  being  waited  upon  so  much,  I  wonder? 
Is  it — you  won't  be  angry? — that  you  have  such  a  strong 
will,  and  you  do  these  things  to  tame  it?" 

Delafield  made  a  sudden  movement,  and  Julie  had  no 
sooner  spoken  the  words  than  she  regretted  them. 

"So  you  think  I  should  have  made  a  jolly  tyrannical 
slave-owner?"  said  Delafield,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

Julie  bent  towards  him.  with  a  charming  look  of  appeal 
— almost  of  penitence.  "On  the  contrary,  I  think  you 
would  have  been  as  good  to  your  slaves  as  you  are  to 
your  friends." 

His  eyes  met  hers  quietly. 

"Thank  you.  That  was  kind  of  you.  And  as  to  giv- 
ing orders,  and  getting  one's  way,  don't  suppose  I  let 
Chudleigh's  estate  go  to  ruin!  It's  only" — he  hesitated 
— ' '  the  small  personal  tyrannies  of  every  day  that  I'd  like 
to  minimize.     They  brutalize  half  the  fellows  I  know." 

"You'll  come  to  them,"  said  Julie,  absently.  Then 
she  colored,  suddenly  remembering  the  possible  dukedom 
that  awaited  him. 

His  brow  contracted  a  little,  as  though  he  understood. 
He  made  no  reply.  Julie,  with  her  craving  to  be  ap- 
proved— to  say  what  pleased — could  not  leave  it  there. 

"  I  wish  I  understood,"  she  said,  softly,  after  a  moment, 
"what,  or  who  it  was  that  gave  you  these  opinions." 

Getting  still  no  answer,  she  must  perforce  meet  the 
gray  eyes  bent  upon  her,  more  expressively,  perhaps, 
than  their  owner  knew.  "That  you  shall  understand," 
he  said,  after  a  minute,  in  a  voice  which  was  singularly 
deep  and  full,  "whenever  you  choose  to  ask," 

Julie  shrank  and  drew  back. 

212 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "I'll 
hold  you  to  that.  Alack!  I  had  forgotten  a  letter  I 
must  write." 

And  she  pretended  to  write  it,  while  Delafield  buried 
himself  in  the  newspapers 


Xlli 


JULIE'S  curiosity  —  passing  and  permnctory  as  it 
was  —  concerning  the  persons  and  influences  that 
had  worked  upon  Jacob  Delafield  since  his  college  days, 
was  felt  in  good  earnest  by  not  a  few  of  Delafield's 
friends.  For  he  was  a  person  rich  in  friends,  reserved 
as  he  generally  was,  and  crotchety  as  most  of  them 
thought  him.  The  mixture  of  self-evident  strength  and 
manliness  in  his  physiognomy  with  something  delicate 
and  evasive,  some  hindering  element  of  reflection  or 
doubt,  was  repeated  in  his  character.  On  the  one  side 
he  was  a  robust,  healthy  Etonian,  who  could  ride,  shoot, 
and  golf  like  the  rest  of  his  kind,  who  used  the  terse, 
slangy  ways  of  speech  of  the  ordinary  Englishman,  who 
loved  the  land  and  its  creatures,  and  had  a  natural  ha- 
tred for  a  poacher;  and  on  another  he  v/as  a  man  haunted 
by  dreams  and  spiritual  voices,  a  man  for  whom,  as  he 
paced  his  tired  horse  homeward  after  a  day's  run,  there 
would  rise  on  the  grays  and  purples  of  the  winter  dusk 
far-shining  "cities  of  God"  and  visions  of  a  better  life 
for  man.  He  read  much  poetry,  and  the  New  Testa- 
ment spoke  to  him  imperatively,  though  in  no  orthodox 
or  accustomed  way.  Ruskin,  and  the  earlier  work  of 
Tolstoy,  then  just  beginning  to  take  hold  of  the  English 
mind,  had  affected  his  thought  and  imagination,  as  the 
generation  before  him  had  been  affected  by  Carlyle, 
Emerson,  and  George  Sand. 

214 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

This  present  phase  of  his  Hfe,  however,  was  the  out- 
come of  much  that  was  turbulent  and  shapeless  in  his 
first  youth.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  have  passed  through 
Oxford  under  a  kind  of  eclipse.  All  that  he  could  re- 
member of  two-thirds  of  his  time  there  was  an  immod- 
erate amount  of  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping.  A  heavy 
animal  existence,  disturbed  by  moments  of  unhappiness 
and  remorse,  or,  at  best,  lightened  by  intervals  and 
gleams  of  friendship  with  two  or  three  men  who  tried  to 
prod  him  out  of  his  lethargy,  and  cherished  what  ap- 
peared, to  himself  in  particular,  a  strange  and  unreason- 
able liking  for  him.  Such,  to  his  own  thinking,  had  been 
his  Oxford  life,  up  to  the  last  year  of  his  residence  there. 

Then,  when  he  was  just  making  certain  of  an  ignomini- 
ous failure  in  the  final  schools,  he  became  more  closely 
acquainted  with  one  of  the  college  tutors,  whose  influ- 
ence was  to  be  the  spark  which  should  at  last  fire  the  clay. 
This  modest,  heroic,  and  learned  man  was  a  paralyzed 
invalid,  owing  to  an  accident  in  the  prime  of  life.  He 
had  lost  the  use  of  his  lower  limbs — "dead  from  the 
waist  down."  Yet  such  was  the  strength  of  his  moral 
and  intellectual  life  that  he  had  become,  since  the  catas- 
trophe, one  of  the  chief  forces  of  his  college.  The  in- 
valid-chair on  which  he  wheeled  himself,  recumbent, 
from  room  to  room,  and  from  which  he  gave  his  lectures, 
was,  in  the  eyes  of  Oxford,  a  symbol  not  of  weakness, 
but  of  touching  and  triumphant  victory.  He  gave  him- 
self no  airs  of  resignation  or  of  martyrdom.  He  simply 
lived  his  life — except  during  those  crises  of  weakness  or 
pain  when  his  friends  were  shut  out — as  though  it  were 
like  any  other  life,  save  only  for  what  he  made  appear  an 
insignificant   physical   limitation.     Scholarship,   college 

215 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

business  or  college  sports,  politics  and  literature  —  his 
mind,  at  least,  was  happy,  strenuous,  and  at  home  in 
them  all.  To  have  pitied  him  would  have  been  a  mere 
impertinence.  While  in  his  own  heart,  which  never 
grieved  over  himself,  there  were  treasures  of  compassion 
for  the  weak,  the  tempted,  and  the  unsuccessful,  which 
spent  themselves  in  secret,  simple  ways,  unknown  to  his. 
most  intimate  friends. 

This  man's  personality  it  was  which,  like  the  branch 
of  healing  on  bitter  waters,  presently  started  in  Jacob 
Delafield's  nature  obscure  processes  of  growth  and  re- 
generation. The  originator  of  them  knew  little  of  what 
was  going  on.  He  was  Delafield's  tutor  for  Greats,  in 
the  ordinary  college  routine;  Delafield  took  essays  to  him, 
and  occasionally  lingered  to  talk.  But  they  never  be- 
came exactly  intimate.  A  few  conversations  of  "pith 
and  moment";  a  warm  shake  of  the  hand  and  a  keen 
look  of  pleasure  in  the  blue  eyes  of  the  recumbent  giant 
when,  after  one  year  of  superhuman  but  belated  effort, 
Delafield  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  second  class;  a  little 
note  of  farewell,  affectionate  and  regretful,  when  Dela- 
field left  the  university ;  an  occasional  message  through 
a  common  friend — Delafield  had  little  more  than  these 
to  look  back  upon,  outside  the  discussions  of  historical  or 
philosophical  subjects  which  had  entered  into  their  re- 
lation as  pupil  and  teacher. 

And  now  the  paralyzed  tutor  was  dead,  leaving  be- 
hind him  a  volume  of  papers  on  classical  subjects,  the 
reputation  of  an  admirable  scholar,  and  the  fragrance  of 
a  dear  and  honored  name.  His  pupils  had  been  many; 
they  counted  among  the  most  distinguished  of  England's 
youth;  and  all  of  them  owed  him  much.     Few  people 

216 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

thought  of  Delafield  when  the  Hst  of  them  was  recited; 
and  yet,  in  truth,  Jacob's  debt  was  greater  than  any;  for 
he  owed  this  man  nothing  less  than  his  soul. 

No  doubt  the  period  at  Oxford  had  been  rather  a  pe- 
riod of  obscure  conflict  than  of  mere  idleness  and  degen- 
eracy, as  it  had  seemed  to  be.  But  it  might  easily  have 
ended  in  physical  and  moral  ruin,  and,  as  it  was — thanks 
to  Courtenay — Delafield  went  out  to  the  business  of  life, 
a  man  singularly  master  of  himself,  determined  to  live 
his  own  life  for  his  own  ends. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  conscious,  like  many  other 
young  men  of  his  time,  of  a  strong  repulsion  towards  the 
complexities  and  artificialities  of  modern  society.  As  in 
the  forties,  a  time  of  social  stir  was  rising  out  of  a  time  of 
stagnation.  Social  settlements  were  not  yet  founded, 
but  the  experiments  which  led  to  them  were  beginning. 
Jacob  looked  at  the  life  of  London,  the  clubs  and  the 
country-houses,  the  normal  life  of  his  class,  and  turned 
from  it  in  aversion.  He  thought,  sometimes,  of  emigrat- 
ing, in  search  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  as  men 
emigrated  in  the  forties. 

But  his  mother  and  sister  were  alone  in  the  world — his 
mother  a  somewhat  helpless  being,  his  sister  still  very 
young  and  unmarried.  He  could  not  reconcile  it  to  his 
conscience  to  go  very  far  from  them. 

He  tried  the  bar,  amid  an  inner  revolt  that  only  in- 
creased with  time.  And  the  bar  implied  London,  and 
the  dinners  and  dances  of  London,  which,  for  a  man  of 
his  family,  the  probable  heir  to  the  lands  and  moneys  of 
the  Chudleighs,  were  naturally  innumerable.  He  was 
much  courted,  in  spite,  perhaps  because,  of  his  oddities; 
and  it  was  plain  to  him  that  with  only  a  small  exercise  of 

217 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

those  will-forces  he  felt  accumulating  within  him,  most 
of  the  normal  objects  of  ambition  were  within  his  grasp. 
The  English  aristocratic  class,  as  we  all  know,  is  no  longer 
exclusive.  It  mingles  freely  with  the  commoner  world 
on  apparently  equal  terms.  But  all  the  while  its  per- 
sonal and  family  cohesion  is  perhaps  greater  than  ever. 
The  power  of  mere  birth,  it  seemed  to  Jacob,  was  hardly 
less  in  the  England  newly  possessed  of  household  suffrage 
than  in  the  England  of  Charles  James  Fox's  youth, 
though  it  worked  through  other  channels.  And  for  the 
persons  in  command  of  this  power,  a  certain  appareil  de 
vie  was  necessary,  taken  for  granted.  So  much  income, 
so  many  servants,  such  and  such  habits — these  things 
imposed  themselves.  Life  became  a  soft  and  cushioned 
business,  with  an  infinity  of  layers  between  it  and  any 
hard  reality — a  round  pea  in  a  silky  pod. 

And  he  meanwhile  found  himself  hungry  to  throw 
aside  these  tamed  and  trite  forms  of  existence,  and  to 
penetrate  to  the  harsh,  true,  simple  things  behind.  His 
imagination  and  his  heart  turned  towards  the  primitive, 
indispensable  labors  on  which  society  rests — the  life  of 
the  husbandman,  the  laborer,  the  smith,  the  woodman, 
the  builder;  he  dreamed  the  old,  enchanted  dream  of  liv- 
ing with  nature;  of  becoming  the  brother  not  of  the  few, 
but  of  the  many.  He  was  still  reading  in  chambers, 
however,  when  his  first  cousin,  the  Duke,  a  melancholy 
semi-invalid,  a  widower,  with  an  only  son  tuberculous  al- 
most from  his  birth,  arrived  from  abroad.  Jacob  was 
brought  into  new  contact  with  him.  The  Duke  liked 
him,  and  offered  him  the  agency  of  his  Essex  property. 
Jacob  accepted,  partly  that  he  might  be  quit  of  the  law, 
partly  that  he  might  be  in  the  country  and  among  the 

218 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

poor,  partly  for  reasons,  or  ghosts  of  reasons,  unavowed 
even  to  himself.  The  one  terror  that  haunted  his  life 
was  the  terror  of  the  dukedom.  This  poor,  sickly  lad, 
the  heir,  with  whom  he  soon  made  warm  friends,  and  the 
silent,  morbid  Duke,  with  the  face  of  Charles  V.  at  St. 
Just — he  became,  in  a  short  time,  profoundly  and  piti- 
fully attached  to  them.  It  pleased  him  to  serve  them; 
above  all  did  it  please  him  to  do  all  he  could,  and  to  in- 
cite others  to  do  all  they  could,  to  keep  these  two  frail 
persons  cheered  and  alive.  His  own  passionate  dread 
lest  he  should  suddenly  find  himself  in  their  place,  gave 
a  particular  poignancy  to  the  service  he  was  always  ready 
to  render  them  of  his  best. 

The  Duke's  confidence  in  him  had  increased  rapidly. 
Delafield  was  now  about  to  take  over  the  charge  of  an- 
other of  the  Duke's  estates,  in  the  Midlands,  and  much 
of  the  business  connected  with  some  important  Lon- 
don property  was  also  coming  into  his  hands.  He  had 
made  himself  a  good  man  of  business  where  another's 
interests  were  concerned,  and  his  dreams  did  no  harm 
to  the  Duke's  revenues.  He  gave,  indeed,  a  liberal 
direction  to  the  whole  policy  of  the  estate,  and,  as 
he  had  said  to  Julie,  the  Duke  did  not  forbid  experi- 
ments. 

As  to  his  own  money,  he  gave  it  aw^ay  as  wisely  as  he 
could,  which  is,  perhaps,  not  saying  very  much  for  the 
schemes  and  Quixotisms  of  a  young  man  of  eight-and- 
twenty.  At  any  rate,  he  gave  it  away — to  his  mother 
and  sister  first,  then  to  a  variety  of  persons  and  causes. 
Why  should  he  save  a  penny  of  it?  He  had  some  money 
of  his  own,  besides  his  income  from  the  Duke.  It  was 
disgusting  that  he  should  have  so  much,  and  that  it 

219 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

should  be,  apparently,  so  very  easy  for  him  to  have  in- 
definitely more  if  he  wanted  it. 

He  lived  in  a  small  cottage,  in  the  simplest,  plainest 
way  compatible  with  his  work  and  with  the  mainte- 
nance of  two  decently  furnished  rooms  for  any  friend 
who  might  chance  to  visit  him.  He  read  much  and 
thought  much.  But  he  was  not  a  man  of  any  command- 
ing speculative  or  analytic  ability.  It  would  have  been 
hard  for  him  to  give  any  very  clear  or  logical  account  of 
himself  and  his  deepest  beliefs.  Nevertheless,  with  every 
year  that  passed  he  became  a  more  remarkable  character 
— his  will  stronger,  his  heart  gentler.  In  the  village  where 
he  lived  they  wondered  at  him  a  good  deal,  and  often 
laughed  at  him.  But  if  he  had  left  them,  certainly  the 
children  and  the  old  people  would  have  felt  as  though 
the  sun  had  gone  out. 

In  London  he  showed  little  or  nothing  of  his  peculiar 
ways  and  pursuits;  was,  in  fact,  as  far  as  anybody  knew 
— outside  half  a  dozen  friends — just  the  ordinary,  well- 
disposed  young  man,  engaged  in  a  business  that  every 
one  understood.  With  Lady  Henry,  his  relations,  apart 
from  his  sympathy  with  Julie  Le  Breton,  had  been  for 
some  time  rather  difficult.  She  made  gratitude  hard  for 
one  of  the  most  grateful  of  men.  When  the  circum- 
stances of  the  Hubert  Delafields  had  been  much  strait- 
ened, after  Lord  Hubert's  death,  Lady  Henry  had  come 
to  their  aid,  and  had,  in  particular,  spent  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  on  Jacob's  school  and  college  education.  But 
there  are  those  who  can  make  a  gift  burn  into  the  bones 
of  those  who  receive  it.  Jacob  had  now  saved  nearly  the 
whole  sum,  and  was  about  to  repay  her.  Meanwhile  his 
obligation,  his  relationship,  and  her  age  made  it  natural, 

220 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

or  rather  imperative,  that  he  should  be  often  in  her  house; 
but  when  he  was  with  her  the  touch  of  arrogant  brutality 
in  her  nature,  especially  towards  servants  and  depend- 
ants, roused  him  almost  to  fury.  She  knew  it,  and  would 
often  exercise  her  rough  tongue  merely  for  the  pleasure 
of  tormenting  him. 

No  sooner,  therefore,  had  he  come  to  know  the  fragile, 
distinguished  creature  whom  Lady  Henry  had  brought 
back  with  her  one  autumn  as  her  companion  than  his 
sympathies  were  instantly  excited,  first  by  the  mere  fact 
that  she  was  Lady  Henry's  dependant,  and  then  by  the 
confidence,  as  to  her  sad  story  and  strange  position, 
which  she  presently  reposed  in  him  and  his  cousin 
Evelyn.  On  one  or  two  occasions,  very  early  in  his 
acquaintance  with  her,  he  was  a  witness  of  some  small 
tyranny  of  Lady  Henry's  towards  her.  He  saw  the 
shrinking  of  the  proud  nature,  and  the  pain  thrilled 
through  his  own  nerves  as  though  the  lash  had  touched 
himself.  Presently  it  became  a  joy  to  him  whenever  he 
was  in  town  to  conspire  with  Evelyn  Crowborough  for 
her  pleasure  and  relief.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
conspired,  and  it  gave  him  sometimes  a  slight  shock  to 
see  how  readily  these  two  charming  women  lent  them- 
selves, on  occasion,  to  devices  that  had  the  aspect  of  in- 
trigue, and  involved  a  good  deal  of  what,  in  his  own  case, 
he  would  have  roundly  dubbed  lying.  And,  in  truth,  if 
he  had  known,  they  did  not  find  him  a  convenient  ally, 
and  he  was  by  no  means  always  in  their  confidence. 

Once,  about  six  months  after  Julie's  arrival  in  Bruton 
Street,  he  met  her  on  a  spring  morning  crossing  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  with  the  dogs.  She  looked  startlingly  white 
and  ill,  and  when  he  spoke  to  her  with  eager  sympathy 

221 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

her  mouth  quivered  and  her  dark  eyes  clouded  with 
tears.  The  sight  produced  an  extraordinary  effect  on  a 
man  large-hearted  and  simple,  for  whom  women  still 
moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  romance.  His  heart  leaped 
within  him  as  she  let  herself  be  talked  with  and  com- 
forted. And  when  her  delicate  hand  rested  in  his  as 
they  said  good-bye,  he  was  conscious  of  feelings — wild, 
tumultuous  feelings — to  which,  in  his  walk  homeward 
through  the  spring  glades  of  the  park,  he  gave  impetu- 
ous course. 

Romantic,  indeed,  the  position  was,  for  romance  rests 
on  contrast.  Jacob,  who  knew  Julie  Le  Breton's  secret, 
was  thrilled  or  moved  by  the  contrasts  of  her  existence 
at  every  turn.  Her  success  and  her  subjection;  the 
place  in  Lady  Henry's  circle  which  Lady  Henry  had,  in 
the  first  instance,  herself  forced  her  to  take,  contrasted 
with  the  shifts  and  evasions,  the  poor,  tortuous  ways  by 
which,  alas!  she  must  often  escape  Lady  Henry's  later 
jealousy;  her  intellectual  strength  and  her  most  feminine 
weaknesses;  these  things  stirred  and  kept  up  in  Jacob  a 
warm  and  passionate  pity.  The  more  clearly  he  saw 
the  specks  in  her  glory,  the  more  vividly  did  she  appear 
to  him  a  princess  in  distress,  bound  by  physical  or  moral 
fetters  not  of  her  own  making.  None  of  the  well-born, 
well-trained  damsels  who  had  been  freely  thrown  across 
his  path  had  so  far  beguiled  him  in  the  least.  Only  this 
woman  of  doubtful  birth  and  antecedents,  lonely,  sad, 
and  enslaved  amid  what  people  called  her  social  tri- 
umphs, stole  into  his  heart — beautified  by  what  he  chose 
to  consider  her  misfortunes,  and  made  none  the  less  at- 
tractive by  the  fact  that  as  he  pursued,  she  retreated;  as 
he  pressed,  she  grew  cold. 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

When,  indeed,  after  their  friendship  had  lasted  about 
a  year,  he  proposed  to  her  and  she  refused  him,  his 
passion,  instead  of  cooHng,  redoubled.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  to  think  that  she  had  done  a  strange  thing  from 
the  worldly  point  of  view — that  would  have  involved  an 
appreciation  of  himself,  as  a  prize  in  the  marriage  mar- 
ket, he  would  have  loathed  to  make.  But  he  was  one  of 
the  men  for  whom  resistance  enhances  the  value  of  what 
they  desire,  and  secretly  he  said  to  himself,  "Perse- 
vere!" When  he  was  repelled  or  puzzled  by  certain 
aspects  of  her  character,  he  would  say  to  himself: 

"It  is  because  she  is  alone  and  miserable.  Women 
are  not  meant  to  be  alone.  What  soft,  helpless  creat- 
ures they  are! — even  when  intellectually  they  fly  far 
ahead  of  us.  If  she  would  but  put  her  hand  in  mine  I 
would  so  serve  and  worship  her,  she  would  have  no  need 
for  these  strange  things  she  does — the  doublings  and 
ruses  of  the  persecuted."  Thus  the  touches  of  falsity 
that  repelled  Wilfrid  Bury  were  to  Delafield's  passion 
merely  the  stains  of  rough  travel  on  a  fair  garment. 

But  she  refused  him,  and  for  another  year  he  said  no 
more.  Then,  as  things  got  worse  and  worse  for  her,  he 
spoke  again — ambiguously — a  word  or  two,  thrown  out 
to  sound  the  waters.  Her  manner  of  silencing  him  on 
this  second  occasion  was  not  what  it  had  been  before. 
His  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  a  few  days  later  he 
divined  the  Wark worth  afifair. 

When  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  spoke  to  him  of  the  young 
officer's  relations  to  Mademoiselle  Le  Breton,  Delafield's 
stiff  defence  of  Julie's  prerogatives  in  the  matter  masked 
the  fact  that  he  had  just  gone  through  a  week  of  suf- 
fering, wrestling  his  heart   down  in  country  lanes ;   a 

223 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

week  which  had  brought  him  to  somewhat  curious  re- 
sults. 

In  the  first  place,  as  with  Sir  Wilfrid,  he  stood  up 
stoutly  for  her  rights.  If  she  chose  to  attach  herself  to 
this  man,  whose  business  was  it  to  interfere?  If  he  was 
worthy  and  loved  her,  Jacob  himself  would  see  fair  play, 
would  be  her  friend  and  supporter. 

But  the  scraps  of  gossip  about  Captain  Warkworth 
which  the  Duchess — who  had  disliked  the  man  at  first 
sight  —  gathered  from  different  quarters  and  confided 
to  Jacob  were  often  disquieting.  It  was  said  that  at 
Simla  he  had  entrapped  this  little  heiress,  and  her  obvi- 
ously foolish  and  incapable  mother,  by  devices  generally 
held  to  be  discreditable;  and  it  had  taken  two  angry 
guardians  to  warn  him  off.  What  was  the  state  of  the 
case  now  no  one  exactly  knew;  though  it  was  shrewdly 
suspected  that  the  engagement  was  only  dormant.  The 
child  was  known  to  have  been  in  love  with  him;  in  two 
years  more  she  would  be  of  age;  her  fortune  was  enor- 
mous, and  Warkworth  was  a  poor  and  ambitious  man. 

There  was  also  an  ugly  tale  of  a  civilian's  wife  in  a  hill 
station,  referring  to  a  date  some  years  back;  but  Dela- 
field  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  believe  it. 

As  to  his  origins — there  again,  Delafield,  making  cau- 
tious inquiries,  came  across  some  unfavorable  details, 
confided  to  him  by  a  man  of  Warkworth 's  own  regiment. 
His  father  had  retired  from  the  army  immediateh^  after 
the  Mutiny,  broken  in  health,  and  much  straitened  in 
means.  Himself  belonging  to  a  family  of  the  poorer 
middle  class,  he  had  married  late,  a  good  woman  not 
socially  his  equal,  and  without  fortune.  They  settled  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  on  his  half-pay,  and  harassed  by  a 

224 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

good  many  debts.  Their  two  children,  Henry  and  Isa- 
bella, were  then  growing  up,  and  the  parents'  hopes  were 
fixed  upon  their  promising  and  good-looking  son.  With 
difficulty  they  sent  him  to  Charterhouse  and  a  "cram- 
mer." The  boy  coveted  a  "crack"  regiment;  by  dint  of 
mustering  all  the  money  and  all  the  interest  they  could, 
they  procured  him  his  heart's  desire.  He  got  unpar- 
donably  into  debt;  the  old  people's  resources  were  les- 
sening, not  expanding;  and  ultimately  the  poor  father 
died  broken  down  by  the  terror  of  bankruptcy  for  him- 
self and  disgrace  for  Henry.  The  mother  still  survived, 
in  very  straitened  circumstances. 

"His  sister,"  said  Delafield's  informant,  "married  one 
of  the  big  London  tailors,  whom  she  met  first  on  the 
Ryde  pier.  I  happen  to  know  the  facts,  for  my  father 
and  I  have  been  customers  of  his  for  years,  and  one  day, 
hearing  that  I  was  in  Warkworth's  regiment,  he  told  me 
some  stories  of  his  brother-in-law  in  a  pretty  hostile  tone. 
His  sister,  it  appears,  has  often  financed  him  of  late. 
She  must  have  done.  How  else  could  he  have  got 
through  ?  Warkworth  may  be  a  fine,  showy  fellow  when 
there's  fighting  about.  In  private  life  he's  one  of  the 
most  self-indulgent  dogs  alive.  And  yet  he's  ashamed 
of  the  sister  and  her  husband,  and  turns  his  back  on 
them  whenever  he  can.  Oh,  he's  not  a  person  of  nice 
feeling,  is  Warkworth — but,  mark  my  words,  he'll  be  one 
of  the  most  successful  men  in  the  army." 

There  was  one  side.  On  the  other  was  to  be  set  the 
man's  brilliant  professional  record;  his  fine  service  in  this 
recent  campaign;  the  bull-dog  defence  of  an  isolated  fort, 
which  insured  the  safety  of  most  important  communica- 
tions; contempt  of  danger,  thirst,  exposure;  the  rescue 
IS  22q 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

of  a  wounded  comrade  from  the  glacis  of  the  fort,  under 
a  murderous  fire;  facts,  all  of  them,  which  had  fired  the 
public  imagination  and  brought  his  name  to  the  front. 
No  such  acts  as  these  could  have  been  done  by  any  mere 
self-indulgent  pretender. 

Delafield  reserved  his  judgment.  He  set  himself  to 
watch.  In  his  inmost  heart  there  was  a  strange  as- 
sumption of  the  right  to  watch,  and,  if  need  be,  to  act. 
Julie's  instinct  had  told  her  truly.  Delafield,  the  indi- 
vidualist, the  fanatic  for  freedom — he,  also,  had  his  in- 
stinct of  tyranny.  She  should  not  destroy  herself,  the 
dear,  weak,  beloved  woman!     He  would  prevent  it. 

Thus,  during  these  hours  of  transition,  Delafield 
thought  much  of  Julie.  Julie,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
no  sooner  said  good-night  to  him  after  the  conversation 
described  in  the  last  chapter  than  she  drove  him  from 
her  thoughts — one  might  have  said,  with  vehemence. 

The  Times  of  the  following  morning  duly  contained 
the  announcement  of  the  appointment  of  Captain  Wark- 
worth,  D.S.O.,  of  the  Queen's  Grays,  to  the  command  of 
the  military  mission  to  Mokembe  recently  determined  on 
by  her  Majesty's  government.  The  mission  would  pro- 
ceed to  Mokembe  as  soon  as  possible,  but  of  two  officers 
who  on  the  ground  of  especial  knowledge  would  form 
part  of  it,  under  Captain  Warkworth's  command,  one 
was  at  present  in  Canada  and  the  other  at  the  Cape.  It 
would,  therefore,  hardly  be  possible  for  the  mission  to 
start  from  the  coast  for  the  interior  before  the  beginning 
of  May.  In  the  same  paper  certain  promotions  and  dis- 
tinctions on  account  of  the  recent  Mahsud  campaign 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

were  reprinted  from  the  Gazette.  Captain  Henry  Wark- 
worth's  brevet  majority  was  among  them. 

The  Times  leader  on  the  announcement  pointed  out 
that  the  mission  would  be  concerned  with  important 
frontier  questions,  still  more  with  the  revival  of  the  pres- 
tige of  England  in  regions  where  a  supine  government 
had  allowed  it  to  wither  unaccountably.  Other  powers 
had  been  playing  a  filching  and  encroaching  game  at  the 
expense  of  the  British  lion  in  these  parts,  and  it  was  more 
than  time  that  he  should  open  his  sleepy  eyes  upon  what 
was  going  on.  As  to  the  young  officer  who  was  to  com- 
mand the  mission,  the  great  journal  made  a  few  civil 
though  guarded  remarks.  His  record  in  the  recent  cam- 
paign was  indeed  highly  distinguished ;  still  it  could  hard- 
ly be  said  that,  take  it  as  a  whole,  his  history  so  far  gave 
him  a  claim  to  promotion  so  important  as  that  which  he 
had  now  obtained. 

Well,  now  he  had  his  chance.  English  soldiers  had  a 
way  of  profiting  by  such  chances.  The  Times  courte- 
ously gave  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  prophesying 
that  he  would  rise  to  the  occasion  and  justify  the  choice 
of  his  superiors. 

The  Duchess  looked  over  Julie's  shoulder  as  she  read. 

"  Schemer,"  she  said,  as  she  dropped  a  kiss  on  the  back 
of  Julie's  neck,  "I  hope  you're  satisfied.  The  Times 
doesn't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

Julie  put  down  the  paper  with  a  glowing  cheek. 

"They'll  soon  know,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Julie,  do  you  believe  in  him  so  much?" 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  think?  It  is  not  I  who 
have  appointed  him." 

"Not   so   sure,"   laughed   the   Duchess.     "As  if   he 

227 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

would  have  had  a  chance  without  you.     Whom  did  he 
know  last  November  when  you  took  him  up?" 

Julie  moved  to  and  fro,  her  hands  behind  her.  The 
tremor  on  her  lip,  the  light  in  her  eye  showed  her  sense 
of  triumph. 

"What  have  I  done,"  she  said,  laughing,  "but  push  a 
few  stones  out  of  the  way  of  merit?" 

"  Some  of  them  were  heavy,"  said  the  Duchess,  making 
a  little  face.     "  Need  I  invite  Lady  Froswick  any  more?" 

Julie  threw  her  arms  about  her. 

"  Evelyn,  what  a  darling  you've  been!  Now  I'll  never 
worry  you  again." 

"Oh,  for  some  people  I  would  do  ten  times  as  much!" 
cried  the  Duchess.  "  But,  Julie,  I  wish  I  knew  why  you 
think  so  well  of  this  man.  I — I  don't  always  hear  very 
nice  things  about  him." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  Julie,  flushing.  "It  is  easy  to 
hate  success." 

"No,  come,  we're  not  as  mean  as  that!"  cried  the 
Duchess.  "I  vow  that  all  the  heroes  I've  ever  known 
had  a  ripping  time.  Julie" — she  kissed  her  friend  im- 
pulsivel}^ — "Julie,  don't  like  him  too  much.  I  don't 
think  he's  good  enough." 

"Good  enough  for  what?"  said  Julie's  bitter  voice. 
"  Make  yourself  easy  about  Captain  Warkv/orth,  Evelyn; 
but  please  understand — anything  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Don't  let  your  dear  head  be  troubled  about  my  affairs. 
They  are  never  serious,  and  nothing  counts — except,"  she 
added,  recklessly,  "that  I  get  a  little  amusement  by  the 
way." 

"Julie,"  cried  the  Duchess,  "as  if  Jacob — " 

Julie  frowned  and  released  herself ;  then  she  laughed. 

228 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Nothing  that  one  ever  says  about  ordinary  mortals 
appHes  to  Mr.  Delafield.  He  is,  of  course,  hors  con- 
coitrs." 

"Juhe!" 

"It  is  you,  Evelyn,  who  make  me  mechante.  I  could 
be  grateful — and  excellent  friends  with  that  young  man 
— in  my  own  way." 

The  Duchess  sighed,  and  held  her  tongue  with  diffi- 
culty. 

When  the  successful  hero  arrived  that  night  for  dinner 
he  found  a  solitary  lady  in  the  drawing-room. 

Was  this,  indeed,  Julie  Le  Breton — this  soft,  smiling 
vision  in  white? 

He  expected  to  have  found  a  martyr,  pale  and  wan 
from  the  shock  of  the  catastrophe  which  had  befallen 
her,  and,  even  amid  the  intoxication  of  his  own  great 
day,  he  was  not  easy  as  to  how  she  might  have  taken  his 
behavior  on  the  fatal  night.  But  here  was  some  one, 
all  joy,  animation,  and  indulgence — a  glorified  Julie  who 
trod  on  air.  Why?  Because  good-fortune  bad  befallen 
her  friend?  His  heart  smote  him.  He  had  never  seen 
her  so  touching,  so  charming.  Since  the  incubus  of  Lady 
Henry's  house  and  presence  had  been  removed  she 
seemed  to  have  grown  years  younger.  A  white  muslin 
dress  of  her  youth,  touched  here  and  there  by  the  Duch- 
ess's maid,  replaced  the  familiar  black  satin.  When 
Warkworth  first  saw  her  he  paused  unconsciously  in 
surprise. 

Then  he  advanced  to  meet  her,  broadly  smiling,  his 
blue  eyes  dancing. 

"You  got  my  note  this  morning?" 

229 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Yes,"  she  said,  demurely.  "You  were  much  too 
kind,  and  much — much  too  absurd.  I  have  done  noth- 
ing." 

"Oh,  nothing,  of  course."  Then,  after  a  moment: 
"Are  you  going  to  tie  me  to  that  fiction,  or  am  I  to  be 
allowed  a  little  decent  sincerity?  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  you  have  done  it  all.  There,  there;  give  me 
your  hand." 

She  gave  it,  shrinking,  and  he  kissed  it  joyously. 

"Isn't  it  jolly!"  he  said,  with  a  school-boy's  delight, 
as  he  released  her  hand.  "  I  saw  Lord  M this  morn- 
ing." He  named  the  Prime  Minister.  "Very  civil,  in- 
deed. Then  the  Commander-in-Chief — and  Montresor 
gave  me  half  an  hour.  It  is  all  right.  They  are  giving 
me  a  capital  staff.  Excellent  fellows,  all  of  them.  Oh, 
you'll  see,  I  shall  pull  it  through — I  shall  ptdl  it  through. 
By  George!  it  is  a  chance!" 

And  he  stood  radiant,  rubbing  his  hands  over  the 
blaze. 

The  Duchess  came  in  accompanied  by  an  elderly 
cousin  of  the  Duke's,  a  white-haired,  black -gowned 
spinster.  Miss  Emily  Lawrence  —  one  of  those  single 
women,  travelled,  cultivated,  and  good,  that  England 
produces  in  such  abundance. 

"Well,  so  you're  going,"  said  the  Duchess,  to  Wark- 
worth.  "And  I  hear  that  we  ought  to  think  you  a 
lucky  man." 

"Indeed  you  ought,  and  you  must,"  he  said,  gayly. 
"  If  only  the  climate  will  behave  itself.  The  blackwater 
fever  has  a  way  of  killing  you  in  twenty-four  hours  if  it 
gets  hold  of  you;  but  short  of  that — " 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  quite  safe,"  said  the  Duchess.    "  Let 

230 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

me  introduce  you  to  Miss   Lawrence.     Emily,  this  is 
Captain  Warkworth." 

The  elderly  lady  gave  a  sudden  start.  Then  she 
quietly  put  on  her  spectacles  and  studied  the  young  sol- 
dier with  a  pair  of  intelligent  gray  eyes. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  agreeable  than  Wark- 
worth at  dinner.  Even  the  Duchess  admitted  as  much. 
He  talked  easily,  but  not  too  much ,  of  the  task  before  him ; 
told  amusing  tales  of  his  sporting  experience  of  years 
back  in  the  same  regions  which  were  now  to  be  the  scene 
of  his  mission ;  discussed  the  preparations  he  would  have 
to  make  at  Denga,  the  coast  town,  before  starting  on  his 
five  weeks'  journey  to  the  interior;  drew  the  native  porter 
and  the  native  soldier,  not  to  their  advantage,  and  let 
fall,  by  the  way,  not  a  few  wise  or  vivacious  remarks  as 
to  the  races,  resources,  and  future  of  this  illimitable  and 
mysterious  Africa — this  cavern  of  the  unknown,  into 
which  the  waves  of  white  invasion,  one  upon  another, 
were  now  pressing  fast  and  ceaselessly,  towards  what 
goal  only  the  gods  knew. 

A  few  other  men  were  dining;  among  them  two  offi- 
cers from  the  staflE  of  the  Commander-in-Chief.  Wark- 
worth, much  their  junior,  treated  them  with  a  skilful 
deference;  but  through  the  talk  that  prevailed  his  mil- 
itary competence  and  prestige  appeared  plainly  enough, 
even  to  the  women.  His  good  opinion  of  himself  was 
indeed  sufficiently  evident;  but  there  was  no  crude 
vainglory.  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  vainglory  of  youth, 
ability,  and  good  looks,  ratified  by  these  budding 
honors  thus  fresh  upon  him,  and  no  one  took  it 
amiss. 

231 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

When  the  gentlemen  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
Warkworth  and  Julie  once  more  found  themselves  to- 
gether, this  time  in  the  Duchess's  little  sitting-room  at 
the  end  of  the  long  suite  of  rooms. 

"When  do  you  go?"  she  asked  him,  abruptly. 

"Not  for  about  a  month."  He  mentioned  the  causes 
of  delay. 

"That  will  bring  you  very  late — into  the  worst  of  the 
heat?"     Her  voice  had  a  note  of  anxiety. 

"Oh,  we  shall  all  be  seasoned  men.  And  after  the 
first  few  days  we  shall  get  into  the  uplands." 

"What  do  your  home  people  say?"  she  asked  him, 
rather  shyly.     She  knew,  in  truth,  little  about  them. 

"My  mother?  Oh,  she  will  be  greatly  pleased.  I  go 
dov/n  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  a  day  or  two  to  see  her 
to-morrow.  But  now,  dear  lady,  that  is  enough  of  my 
wretched  self.  You — do  you  stay  on  here  with  the 
Duchess?" 

She  told  him  of  the  house  in  Heribert  Street.  He 
listened  with  attention. 

"  Nothing  could  be  better.  You  will  have  a  most  dis- 
tinguished little  setting  of  your  own,  and  Lady  Henry 
will  repent  at  leisure.     You  won't  be  lonely?" 

"Oh  no!"     But  her  smile  was  linked  with  a  sigh. 

He  came  nearer  to  her. 

"You  should  never  be  lonely  if  I  could  help  it,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"When  people  are  nameless  and  kinless,"  was  her  pas- 
sionate reply,  in  the  same  undertone  as  his,  "they  must 
be  lonely." 

He  looked  at  her  with  eagerness.  She  lay  back  in  the 
firelight,  her  beautiful  brow  and  eyes  softly  illuminated. 

232 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

He  felt  within  him  a  sudden  snapping  of  restraints. 
Why — why  refuse  what  was  so  clearly  within  his  grasp? 
Love  has  many  manners — many  entrances — and  many 
exits. 

"When  will  you  tell  me  all  that  I  want  to  know  about 
you?"  he  said,  bending  towards  her  with  tender  insist- 
ence.    "There  is  so  much  I  have  to  ask." 

"Oh,  some  time,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  her  pulses 
quickening.  "Mine  is  not  a  story  to  be  told  on  a  great 
day  like  this." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  but  his  face  spoke  for 
him. 

"Our  friendship  has  been  a  beautiful  thing,  hasn't 
it?"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  voice  of  emotion.  "Look  here!" 
He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket  and  half 
withdrew  it.  "Do  you  see  where  I  carry  your  let- 
ters?" 

"You  shouldn't — they  are  not  worthy." 

"How  charming  you  are  in  that  dress — in  that  light! 
I  shall  always  see  you  as  you  are  to-night." 

A  silence.  Excitement  mounted  in  their  veins.  Sud- 
denly he  stooped  and  kissed  her  hands.  They  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  the  seconds  passed  like 
hours. 

Presently,  in  the  nearer  drawing-room,  there  was  a 
sound  of  approaching  voices  and  they  moved  apart. 

"Julie,  Emily  Lawrence  is  going,"  said  the  Duchess's 
voice,  pitched  in  what  seemed  to  Julie  a  strange  and 
haught}'-  note.  "Captain  Warkworth,  Miss  Lawrence 
thinks  that  you  and  she  have  common  friends — Lady 
Blanche  Moffatt  and  her  daughter." 

Captain  Warkworth  murmured  some  conventionality, 

233 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

and  passed  into  the  next  drawing-room  with  Miss  Law- 
rence. 

Julie  rose  to  her  feet,  the  color  dying  out  of  her  face, 
her  passionate  eyes  on  the  Duchess,  who  stood  facing 
her  friend,  guiltily  pale,  and  ready  to  cry. 


XIV 

ON  the  rrjorning  following  these  events,  Warkworth 
went  down  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  see  his  mother. 
On  the  journey  he  thought  much  of  Julie.  They  had 
parted  awkwardly  the  night  before.  The  evening, 
which  had  promised  so  well,  had,  after  all,  lacked  finish 
and  point.  What  on  earth  had  that  tiresome  Miss  Law- 
rence wanted  with  him  ?  They  had  talked  of  Simla  and 
the  Moffatts.  The  conversation  had  gone  in  spurts,  she 
looking  at  him  every  now  and  then  with  eyes  that  seemed 
to  say  more  than  her  words.  All  that  she  had  actually 
said  was  perfectly  insignificant  and  trivial.  Yet  there 
was  something  curious  in  her  manner,  and  when  the 
time  came  for  him  to  take  his  departure  she  had  bade 
him  a  frosty  little  farewell. 

She  had  described  herself  once  or  twice  as  a  great  friend 
of  Lady  Blanche  Moffatt.     Was  it  possible.? 

But  if  Lady  Blanche,  whose  habits  of  sentimental  in- 
discretion were  ingrained,  had  gossiped  to  this  lady, 
what  then  ?  Why  should  he  be  frowned  on  by  Miss  Law- 
rence, or  anybody  else?  That  malicious  talk  at  Simla 
had  soon  exhausted  itself.  His  present  appointment  was 
a  triumphant  answer  to  it  all.  His  slanderers — includ- 
ing Aileen's  ridiculous  guardians — could  only  look  fool- 
ish if  they  pursued  the  matter  any  further.  What 
"trap"  was  there — what  mesalliance?  A  successful  sol- 
"--^  235 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

dier  was  good  enough  for  anybody.     Look  at  the  first 
Lord  Clyde,  and  scores  besides. 

The  Duchess,  too.  Why  had  she  treated  him  so  well 
at  first,  and  so  cavalierly  after  dinner?  Her  manners 
were  really  too  uncertain. 

What  was  the  matter,  and  why  did  she  dislike  him? 
He  pondered  over  it  a  good  deal,  and  with  much  sore- 
ness of  spirit.  Like  many  men  capable  of  very  selfish 
or  very  cruel  conduct,  he  was  extremely  sensitive,  and 
took  keen  notice  of  the  fact  that  a  person  liked  or  dis- 
liked him. 

If  the  Duchess  disliked  him  it  could  not  be  merely  on 
account  of  the  Simla  story,  even  though  the  old  maid 
might  conceivably  have  given  her  a  jaundiced  account. 
The  Duchess  knew  nothing  of  Aileen,  and  was  little  in- 
fluenced, so  far  as  he  had  observed  her,  by  considera- 
tions of  abstract  justice  or  propriety,  affecting  persons 
whom  she  had  never  seen. 

No,  she  was  Julie's  friend,  the  little  wilful  lady,  and  it 
was  for  Julie  she  ruffled  her  feathers,  like  an  angry  dove. 

So  his  thoughts  had  come  back  to  Julie,  though,  in- 
deed, it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  never  far  from  her. 
As  he  looked  absently  from  the  train  windows  on  the 
flying  landscape,  Julie's  image  hovered  between  him  and 
it — a  magic  sun,  flooding  soul  and  senses  with  warmth. 
How  unconsciously,  how  strangely  his  feelings  had 
changed  towards  her!  That  coolness  of  temper  and 
nerve  he  had  been  able  to  preserve  towards  her  for  so 
long  was,  indeed,  breaking  down.  He  recognized  the 
danger,  and  wondered  where  it  would  lead  him.  What 
a  fascinating,  sympathetic  creature! — and,  by  George! 
what  she  had  done  for  him! 

236 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Aileen!  Aileen  was  a  little  sylph,  a  pretty  child- 
angel,  white-winged  and  innocent,  who  hved  in  a  circle 
of  convent  thoughts,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world,  and 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him  as  the  first  man  who  had 
ever  made  love  to  her.  But  this  intelligent,  full-blooded 
woman,  who  could  understand  at  a  word,  or  a  half  word, 
who  had  a  knowledge  of  affairs  which  many  a  high- 
placed  man  might  envy,  with  whom  one  never  had  a  dull 
moment — this  courted,  distinguished  Julie  Le  Breton — 
his  mind  swelled  with  half-guilty  pride  at  the  thought 
that  for  six  months  he  had  absorbed  all  her  energies, 
that  a  word  from  him  could  make  her  smile  or  sigh,  that 
he  could  force  her  to  look  at  him  with  eyes  so  melting 
and  so  troubled  as  those  with  which  she  had  given  him 
her  hands  —  her  slim,  beautiful  hands  —  that  night  in 
Grosvenor  Square. 

How  freedom  became  her!  Dependency  had  dropped 
from  her,  like  a  cast-oflf  cloak,  and  beside  her  fresh,  mel- 
ancholy charm,  the  airs  and  graces  of  a  child  of  fashion 
and  privilege  like  the  little  Duchess  appeared  almost 
cheap  and  trivial.  Poor  Julie !  No  doubt  some  social 
struggle  was  before  her.  Lady  Henry  was  strong,  after 
all,  in  this  London  world,  and  the  solider  and  stupider 
people  who  get  their  way  in  the  end  were  not,  she 
thought,  likely  to  side  with  Lady  Henry's  companion 
in  a  quarrel  v;here  the  facts  of  the  story  were  unques- 
tionably, at  first  sight,  damaging  to  Miss  Le  Breton. 
Julie  would  have  her  hours  of  bitterness  and  humilia- 
tion; and  she  would  conquer  by  boldness,  if  she  con- 
quered at  all — by  originality,  by  determining  to  live  her 
own  life.  That  would  preserve  for  her  the  small  circle, 
if  it  lost  her  the  large  world.     And  the  small  circle  was 

237 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

what  she  lived  for,  what  she  ought,  at  any  rate,  to  live 
for. 

It  was  not  likely  she  would  marry.  Why  should  she 
desire  it  ?  From  any  blundering  tragedy  a  woman  of  so 
acute  a  brain  would,  of  course,  know  how  to  protect 
herself.  But  within  the  limits  of  her  life,  why  should 
she  refuse  herself  happiness,  intimacy,  love? 

His  heart  beat  fast ;  his  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  But 
the  train  was  nearing  Portsmouth,  and  with  an  effort  he 
recalled  his  mind  to  the  meeting  with  his  mother,  which 
was  then  close  upon  him. 

He  spent  nearly  a  week  in  the  little  cottage  at  Sea 
View,  and  Mrs.  Warkworth  got  far  more  pleasure  than 
usual,  poor  lady,  out  of  his  visit.  She  was  a  thin,  plain 
woman,  not  devoid  of  either  ability  or  character.  But 
life  had  gone  hardly  with  her,  and  since  her  husband's 
death  what  had  been  reserve  had  become  melancholy. 
She  had  always  been  afraid  of  her  only  son  since  they  had 
sent  him  to  Charterhouse,  and  he  had  become  so  much 
"finer"  than  his  parents.  She  knew  that  he  must  con- 
sider her  a  very  ignorant  and  narrow-minded  person; 
when  he  was  with  her  she  was  humiliated  in  her  own 
eyes,  though  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  she  resumed  what 
was  in  truth  a  leading  place  among  her  own  small 
circle. 

She  loved  him,  and  was  proud  of  him;  yet  at  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heart  she  had  never  absolved  him  from  his 
father's  death.  But  for  his  extravagance,  and  the  mis- 
fortunes he  had  brought  upon  them,  her  old  general 
would  be  alive  still — pottering  about  in  the  spring  sun- 
shine, spudding  the  daisies  from  the  turf,  or  smoking  his 
pipe  beneath  the  thickening  trees.     Silently  her  heart 

238 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

still  yearned  and  hungered  for  the  husband  of  her  youth; 
his  son  did  not  replace  him. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  came  down  to  her  with  this  halo 
of  glory  upon  him,  and  smoked  up  and  down  her  small 
garden  through  the  mild  spring  days,  gossiping  to  her 
of  all  the  great  things  that  had  befallen  him,  repeating 
to  her,  word  for  word,  his  conversation  with  the  Prime 
Minister,  and  his  interview  with  the  Commander-in- 
Chief,  or  making  her  read  all  the  letters  of  congratula- 
tion he  had  received,  her  mother's  heart  thawed  within 
her  as  it  had  not  done  for  long.  Her  ears  told  her  that 
he  was  still  vain  and  a  boaster;  her  memory  held  the 
indelible  records  of  his  past  selfishness ;  but  as  he  walked 
beside  her,  his  fair  hair  blown  back  from  his  handsome 
brow,  and  eyes  that  were  so  much  younger  than  the  rest 
of  the  face,  his  figure  as  spare  and  boyish  now  as  when 
he  had  worn  the  colors  of  the  Charterhouse  eleven,  she 
said  to  herself,  in  that  inward  and  unsuspected  colloquy 
she  was  always  holding  with  her  own  heart  about  him, 
that  if  his  father  could  have  seen  him  now  he  would 
have  forgiven  him  everything.  According  to  her  secret 
Evangelical  faith,  God  "deals"  with  every  soul  he  has 
created — through  joy  or  sorrow,  through  good  or  evil 
fortune.  He  had  dealt  with  herself  through  anguish  and 
loss.  Henry,  it  seemed,  was  to  be  moulded  through 
prosperity.  His  good  fortune  was  already  making  a 
better  man  of  him. 

Certainly  he  was  more  affectionate  and  thoughtful 
than  before.  He  would  have  liked  to  give  her  money,  of 
which  he  seemed  to  have  an  unusual  store;  but  she 
bade  him  keep  what  he  had  for  his  own  needs.  Her  own 
little  bit  of  money,  saved  from  the  wreck  of  their  fort^ 

239 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

unes,  was  enough  for  her.  Then  he  went  into  Ryde 
and  brought  her  back  a  Shetland  shawl  and  a  new  table- 
cloth for  her  little  sitting-room,  which  she  accepted  with 
a  warmer  kiss  than  she  had  given  him  for  years. 

He  left  her  on  a  bright,  windy  morning  which  flecked 
the  blue  Solent  with  foam  and  sent  the  clouds  racing  to 
westward.  She  walked  back  along  the  sands,  thinking 
anxiously  of  the  African  climate  and  the  desert  hard- 
ships he  was  going  to  face.  And  she  wondered  what 
significance  there  might  be  in  the  fact  that  he  had  writ- 
ten twice  during  his  stay  with  her  to  a  Miss  Le  Breton, 
whose  name,  nevertheless,  he  had  not  mentioned  in  their 
conversations.  Well,  he  would  marry  soon,  she  sup- 
posed, and  marry  well,  in  circles  out  of  her  ken.  With 
the  common  prejudice  of  the  English  middle  class,  she 
hoped  that  if  this  Miss  Le  Breton  were  his  choice,  she 
might  be  only  French  in  name  and  not  in  blood. 

Meanwhile,  Warkworth  sped  up  to  London  in  high 
spirits,  enjoying  the  comforts  of  a  good  conscience. 

He  drove  first  to  his  club,  where  a  pile  of  letters 
awaited  him — some  letters  of  congratulation,  others  con- 
cerned with  the  business  of  his  mission.  He  enjoyed 
the  f^rst,  noticing  jealously  who  had  and  who  had  not 
written  to  him;  then  he  applied  himself  to  the  second. 
His  mind  worked  vigorously  and  well;  he  wrote  his 
replies  in  a  manner  that  satisfied  him.  Then  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair,  with  a  cigar,  he  gave  himself  up  to 
the  close  and  shrewd  planning  of  the  preparations  neces- 
sary for  his  five  weeks'  march,  or  to  the  consideration  of 
two  or  three  alternative  lines  of  action  which  would 
open  before  him  as  soon  as  he  should  find  himself  within 
the  boundaries  of  Mokembe.     Some  five  years  before, 

240 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  government  of  the  day  had  sent  a  small  expedition 
to  this  Debatable  Land,  which  had  failed  disastrously, 
both  from  the  diplomatic  and  the  military  points  of  view. 
He  went  backward  and  forward  to  the  shelves  of  the  fine 
"Service"  library  which  surrounded  him,  taking  down 
the  books  and  reports  which  concerned  this  expedition. 
He  buried  himself  in  them  for  an  hour,  then  threw  them 
aside  with  contempt.  What  blunders  and  short-sight 
everywhere!  The  general  public  might  well  talk  of  the 
stupidity  of  English  officers.  And  blunders  so  easily 
avoided,  too!  It  was  sickening.  He  felt  within  him- 
self a  fulness  of  energy  and  intelligence,  a  perspicacity 
of  brain  which  judged  mistakes  of  this  kind  unpardon- 
able. 

As  he  was  replacing  some  of  the  books  he  had  been 
using  in  the  shelves,  the  club  began  to  fill  up  with  men 
coming  in  to  lunch.  A  great  many  congratulated  him; 
and  a  certain  number  who  of  old  had  hardly  professed  to 
know  him  greeted  him  with  cordiality.  He  found  him- 
self caught  in  a  series  of  short  but  flattering  conversa- 
tions, in  which  he  bore  himself  well — neither  over-dis- 
creet nor  too  elate.  "  I  declare  that  fellow's  improved," 
said  one  man,  who  might  certainly  have  counted  as. 
Warkworth's  enemy  the  week  before,  to  his  companion 
at  table.  "The  government's  been  beastly  remiss  so 
far.  Hope  he'll  pull  it  off.  Ripping  chance,  anyway. 
Though  what  they  gave  it  to  him  for,  goodness  knows! 
There  were  a  dozen  fellows,  at  least,  did  as  well  as  he  in 
the  Mahsud  business.  And  the  Staff-College  man  had  a 
thousand  times  more  claim." 

Nevertheless,  Warkworth  felt  the  general  opinion 
friendly,  a  little  surprised,  no  doubt,  but  showing  that 
16  241 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

readiness  to  believe  in  the  man  coming  to  the  front, 
which  belongs  much  more  to  the  generous  than  to  the 
calculating  side  of  the  English  character.  Insensibly 
his  mental  and  moral  stature  rose.  He  exchanged  a 
few  words  on  his  way  out  with  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished members  of  the  club,  a  man  of  European 
reputation,  whom  he  had  seen  the  week  before  in  the 
Commander-in-Chief's  room  at  the  War  Office.  The 
great  man  spoke  to  him  with  marked  friendliness,  and 
Warkworth  walked  on  air  as  he  went  his  way.  Poten- 
tially he  felt  himself  the  great  man's  equal;  the  gates  of 
life  seemed  to  be  opening  before  him. 

And  with  the  rise  of  fortune  came  a  rush  of  mag- 
nanimous resolution.  No  more  shady  episodes;  no  more 
mean  devices;  no  more  gambling,  and  no  more  debt. 
Major  Warkworth's  sheet  was  clean,  and  it  should  re- 
main so.     A  man  of  his  prospects  must  run  straight. 

He  felt  himself  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  By-the- 
way,  just  time  to  jump  into  a  cab  and  get  to  Park  Cres- 
cent in  time  for  his  sister's  luncheon.  His  last  interview 
with  his  brother-in-law  had  not  been  agreeable.  But 
now — he  felt  for  the  check-book  in  his  pocket — he  was 
in  a  position  to  repay  at  least  half  the  last  sum  of  money 
which  Bella  had  lent  him.  He  would  go  and  give  it 
her  now,  and  report  news  of  the  mother.  And  if  the 
two  chicks  were  there — why.  he  had  a  free  hour  and  he 
would  take  them  to  the  Zoo — he  vowed  he  would! — give 
them  something  pleasant  to  remember  their  uncle  by. 

And  a  couple  of  hours  later  a  handsome,  soldierly 
man  might  have  been  seen  in  the  lion-house  at  the  Zoo, 
leading  a  plump  little  girl  by  either  hand.  Rose  and 
Katie   Mullins  enjoyed  a  golden  time,   and  started  a 

242 


"he  enterkd  upon  a  merry  scene 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

wholly  new  adoration  for  the  uncle  yAio  had  so  far  taken 
small  notice  of  them,  and  was  associated  in  their  shrewd, 
childish  minds  rather  v/ith  tempests  at  home  than  buns 
abroad.  But  this  time  buns,  biscuits,  hansom  -  drives 
and  elephant-rides  were  showered  upon  them  by  an 
uncle  who  seemed  to  make  no  account  of  money,  while 
his  gracious  and  captivating  airs  set  their  little  hearts 
beating  in  a  common  devotion. 

"Now  go  home — go  home,  little  beggars!"  said  that 
golden  gentleman,  as  he  packed  them  into  a  hansom  and 
stood  on  the  step  to  accept  a  wet  kiss  on  his  mustache 
from  each  pink  mouth.  "Tell  your  mother  all  about  it, 
and  don't  forget  your  uncle  Harry.  There's  a  shilling 
for  each  of  you.  Don't  you  spend  it  on  sweets.  You're 
quite  fat  enough  already.     Good-bye!" 

"That's  the  hardest  work  I've  done  for  many  a  long 
day,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  the 
hansom  drove  away.  "I  sha'n't  turn  nurse-maid  when 
other  trades  fail.  But  they're  nice  little  kids  all  the 
same. 

"Now,  then.  Cox's — and  the  City" — he  ran  over  the 
list  of  his  engagements  for  the  afternoon — "and  by  five 
o'clock  shall  I  find  my  fair  lady — at  home — and  estab- 
lished?    Where  on  earth  is  Heribert  Street?" 

He  solved  the  question,  for  a  few  minutes  after  five 
he  was  on  Miss  Le  Breton's  doorstep.  A  quaint  little 
house — and  a  strange  parlor-maid!  For  the  door  was 
opened  to  him  by  a  large-eyed ,  sickly  child,  who  looked  at 
him  with  the  bewilderment  of  one  trying  to  follow  out 
instructions  still  strange  to  her. 

"Yes,  sir,  Miss  Le  Breton  is  in  the  drawing-room,"  she 

243 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

said,  in  a  sweet,  deliberate  voice  with  a  foreign  accent, 
and  she  led  the  way  through  the  hall. 

Poor  little  soul — what  a  twisted  back,  and  what  a 
limp!  She  looked  about  fourteen,  but  was  probably 
older.     Where  had  Julie  discovered  her? 

Warkworth  looked  round  him  at  the  little  hall  with  its 
relics  of  country-house  sports  and  amusements;  his  eye 
travelled  through  an  open  door  to  the  little  dining-room 
and  the  Russell  pastels  of  Lady  Mary's  parents,  as  chil- 
dren, hanging  on  the  wall.  The  cJiaractcr  of  the  little 
dwelling  impressed  itself  at  once.  Smiling,  he  acknowl- 
edged its  congruity  with  Julie.  Here  was  a  lady  who 
fell  on  her  feet! 

The  child,  leading  him,  opened  the  door  to  the  left. 

"Please  walk  in,  sir,"  she  said,  shyly,  and  stood  aside. 

As  the  door  opened,  Warkworth  was  conscious  of  a 
noise  of  tongues. 

So  Julie  was  not  alone?  He  prepared  his  manner  ac- 
cordingly. 

He  entered  upon  a  merry  scene.  Jacob  Delafield  was 
standing  on  a  chair,  hanging  a  picture,  while  Dr.  Meredith 
and  Julie,  on  either  side,  directed  or  criticised  the  opera- 
tion. Meredith  carried  picture-cord  and  scissors;  Julie 
the  hammer  and  nails.  Meredith  was  expressing  the 
profoundest  disbelief  in  Jacob's  practical  capacities; 
Jacob  was  defending  himself  hotly;  and  Julie  laughed 
at  both. 

Towards  the  other  end  of  the  room  stood  the  tea-table, 
between  the  fire  and  an  open  window.  Lord  Lackington 
sat  beside  it,  smiling  to  himself,  and  stroking  a  Persian 
kitten.  Through  the  open  window  the  twinkling  buds 
on  the  lilacs  in  the  Cureton  House  garden  shone  in  the 

244 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

still  lingering  sun.  A  recent  shower  had  left  behind  it 
odors  of  earth  and  grass.  Even  in  this  London  air 
they  spoke  of  the  spring — the  spring  which  already  in 
happier  lands  was  drawing  veils  of  peach  and  cherry 
blossom  over  the  red  Sienese  earth  or  the  green  ter- 
races of  Como.  The  fire  crackled  in  the  grate.  The 
pretty,  old-fashioned  room  was  fragrant  with  hyacinth 
and  narcissus;  Julie's  books  lay  on  the  tables;  Julie's 
hand  and  taste  were  already  to  be  felt  everywhere.  And 
Lord  Lackington  with  the  kitten,  beside  the  fire,  gave 
the  last  touch  of  home  and  domesticity. 

"So  I  find  you  established?"  said  Warkworth,  smiling, 
to  the  lady  with  the  nails,  while  Delafield  nodded  to 
him  from  the  top  of  the  steps  and  Meredith  ceased  to 
chatter. 

"I  haven't  a  hand,  I  fear,"  said  Julie.  "Will  you 
have  some  tea?  Ah,  Leonie,  tu  vas  en  faire  de  nouveau, 
n'est-ce  pas,  pour  ce  monsieur?" 

A  little  woman  in  black,  with  a  shawl  over  her  shoul- 
ders, had  just  glided  into  the  room.  She  had  a  small, 
wrinkled  face,  bright  eyes,  and  a  much-flattened  nose. 

"Tout  de  suite,  monsieur,"  she  said,  quickly,  and  dis- 
appeared with  the  teapot.  Warkworth  guessed,  of 
course,  that  she  was  Madame  Bornier,  the  foster-sister — 
the  "Propriety"  of  this  menage. 

"Can't  I  help?"  he  said  to  Juhe,  with  a  look  at  Dela- 
field. 

"It's  just  done,"  she  said,  coldly,  handing  a  nail  to 
Delafield.  "Just  a  trifle  more  to  the  right.  Ecco! 
Perfection!" 

"Oh,  you  spoil  him,"  said  Meredith.  "And  not  one 
word  of  praise  for  me!" 

245 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  said,  laughing.  "Tan- 
gled the  cord — that's  all!" 

Warkworth  turned  away.  His  face,  so  radiant  as  he 
entered,  had  settled  into  sharp,  sudden  lines.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  this  voice,  this  manner?  He  remem- 
bered that  to  his  three  letters  he  had  received  no  word 
of  reply.  But  he  had  interpreted  that  to  mean  that 
she  was  in  the  throes  of  moving  and  could  find  no  time 
to  write. 

As  he  neared  the  tea-table.  Lord  Lackington  looked 
up.  He  greeted  the  new-comer  with  the  absent  stateli- 
ness  he  generally  put  on  when  his  mind  was  in  a  state 
of  confusion  as  to  a  person's  identity. 

"Well,  so  they're  sending  you  to  D ?     There'll  be 

a  row  there  before  long.  Wish  you  joy  of  the  mission- 
aries!" 

"No,  not  D ,"  said  Warkworth,  smihng.     "Noth- 

mg  so  amusing.     Mokembe's  my  destination." 

"Oh,  Mokembe!"  said  Lord  Lackington,  a  little  abash- 
ed. "That's  where  Cecil  Ray,  Lord  R's  second  son, 
was  killed  last  year — lion-hunting?  No,  it  was  of  fever 
that  he  died.     By-the-way,  a  vile  climate!" 

"  In  the  plains,  yes,"  said  Warkworth,  seating  himself. 
"As  to  the  uplands,  I  understand  they  are  to  be  the 
Switzerland  of  Africa." 

Lord  Lackington  did  not  appear  to  listen. 

"Are  you  a  homoeopath?"  he  said,  suddenly,  rising  to 
his  full  and  immense  statute  and  looking  down  with 
eagerness  on  Warkworth. 

"No.     Why?" 

"Because  it's  your  only  chance,  for  those  parts.  If 
Cecil  Ray  had  had  their  medicines  with  him  he'd  be  alive 

246 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

now.     Look  here;  when  do  you  start?"     The  speaker 
took  out  his  note-book. 

"In  rather  less  than  a  month  I  start  for  Denga." 

"All  right.  I'll  send  you  a  medicine-case — from  Epps. 
If  you're  ill,  take  'em." 

"You're  very  good." 

"Not  at  all.  It's  my  hobby — one  of  the  last."  A 
broad,  boyish  smile  flashed  over  the  handsome  old  face. 
"Look  at  me;  I'm  seventy-five,  and  I  can  tire  out  my 
own  grandsons  at  riding  and  shooting.  That  comes  of 
avoiding  all  allopathic  messes  like  the  devil.  But  the 
allopaths  are  such  mean  fellows  they  filch  all  our  ideas." 

The  old  man  was  off.  Warkworth  submitted  to  five 
minutes'  tirade,  stealing  a  glance  sometimes  at  the  group 
of  Julie,  Meredith,  and  Delafield  in  the  farther  window — 
at  the  happy  ease  and  fun  that  seemed  to  prevail  in  it. 
He  fiercely  felt  himself  shut  out  and  trampled  on. 

Suddenly,  Lord  Lackington  pulled  up,  his  instinct  for 
declamation  qtialified  by  an  equally  instinctive  dread  of 
boring  or  being  bored.  "What  did  you  think  of  Mon- 
tresor's  statement?"  he  said,  abruptly,  referring  to  a 
batch  of  army  reforms  that  Montresor  the  week  before 
had  endeavored  to  recommend  to  a  sceptical  House  of 
Commons. 

"  All  very  well,  as  far  as  it  goes,"  said  Warkworth,  with 
a  shrug. 

"Precisely!  We  English  want  an  army  and  a  navy ; 
we  don't  like  it  when  those  fellows  on  the  Continent 
swagger  in  our  faces,  and  yet  we  won't  pay  either  for 
the  ships  or  the  men.  However,  now  that  they've  dona 
away  with  purchase — Gad!  I  could  fight  them  in  the 
streets  for  the  way  in  which  they've  done  it! — now  that 

247 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

they've  turned  the  army  into  an  examination-shop,  tem- 
pered with  jobbery,  whatever  v/e  do,  we  shall  go  to  the 
deuce.     So  it  don't  matter." 

"You  were  against  the  abolition?" 

"  I  was,  sir — with  Wellington  and  Raglan  and  every- 
body else  of  any  account.  And  as  for  the  violence,  the 
disgraceful  violence  with  which  it  was  carried — " 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  Warkworth,  laughing.  "  It  was  the 
Lords  who  behaved  abominably,  and  it  '11  do  a  deal  of 
good." 

Lord  Lackington's  eyes  flashed. 

"I've  had  a  long  life,"  he  said,  pugnaciously.  "I  be- 
gan as  a  middy  in  the  American  war  of  1812,  that  nobody 
remembers  now.  Then  I  left  the  sea  for  the  army.  I 
knocked  about  the  world.  I  commanded  a  brigade  in 
the  Crimea — " 

"  Who  doesn't  remember  that?"  said  Warkworth,  smil- 
ing. 

The  old  man  acknowledged  the  homage  by  a  shght 
inclination  of  his  handsome  head. 

"And  you  may  take  my  word  for  it  that  this  new  sys- 
tem will  not  give  you  men  worth  a  tenth  part  of  those  fel- 
lows who  bought  and  bribed  their  way  in  under  the  old. 
The  philosophers  may  like  it,  or  lump  it,  but  so  it  is." 

Warkworth  dissented  strongly.  He  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  politician,  himself  a  "nev/  man,"  and  on  the  side  of 
"  new  men."  Lord  Lackington  warmed  to  the  fight,  and 
Warkworth,  with  bitterness  in  his  heart — because  of  that 
group  opposite — was  nothing  loath  to  meet  him.  But 
presently  he  found  the  talk  taking  a  turn  that  astonished 
him.  He  had  entered  upon  a  drawing-room  discussion 
of  a  subject  which  had,  after  all,  been  settled,  if  only  by 

248 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

what  the  Tories  were  pleased  to  call  the  coup  d'etat  of  the 
Royal  Warrant,  and  no  longer  excited  the  passions  of  a 
few  years  back.  What  he  had  really  drawn  upon  him- 
self was  a  hand-to-hand  wrestle  with  a  man  who  had  no 
sooner  provoked  contradiction  than  he  resented  it  with 
all  his  force,  and  with  a  determination  to  crush  the  con- 
tradictor. 

Warkworth  fought  well,  but  with  a  growing  amaze- 
ment at  the  tone  and  manner  of  his  opponent.  The  old 
man's  eyes  darted  war -flames  under  his  finely  arched 
brows.  He  regarded  the  younger  with  a  more  and  more 
hostile,  even  malicious  air;  his  arguments  grew  personal, 
offensive;  his  shafts  were  many  and  barbed,  till  at  last 
Warkworth  felt  his  face  burning  and  his  temper  giving 
way. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Julie  Le  Breton, 
at  last,  rising  and  coming  towards  them. 

Lord  Lackington  broke  off  suddenly  and  threw  him- 
self into  his  chair. 

Warkworth  rose  from  his. 

"We  had  better  have  been  handing  nails,"  he  said, 
"  but  you  wouldn't  give  us  any  work."  Then,  as  Meredith 
and  Delafield  approached,  he  seized  the  opportunity  of 
saying,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Am  I  not  to  have  a  word?" 

She  turned  with  composure,  though  it  seemed  to  him 
she  was  very  pale. 

"Have  you  just  come  back  from  the  Isle  of  Wight?" 

"This  morning."  He  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  "You  got 
my  letters?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  had  no  time  for  writing.  I  hope  you 
found  your  mother  well." 

249 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  You  have  been  hard  at 
work?" 

"Yes,  but  the  Duchess  and  Mr.  Delafield  have  made 
it  all  easy." 

And  so  on,  a  few  more  insignificant  questions  and 
answers. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Delafield,  coming  up  to  them,  "un- 
less there  is  any  more  work  for  me  to  do.  Good-bye, 
Major,  I  congratulate  you.  They  have  given  you  a 
fine  piece  of  work." 

Warkworth  made  a  little  bow,  half  ironical.  Con- 
found the  fellow's  grave  and  lordly  ways!  He  did  not 
want  his  congratulations. 

He  lingered  a  little,  sorely,  full  of  rage,  yet  not 
knowing  how  to  go. 

Lord  Lackington's  eyes  ceased  to  blaze,  and  the  kitten 
ventured  once  more  to  climb  upon  his  knee.  Meredith, 
too,  found  a  comfortable  arm-chair,  and  presently  tried 
to  beguile  the  kitten  from  his  neighbor.  Julie  sat  erect 
between  them,  very  silent,  her  thin,  white  hands  on  her 
lap,  her  head  drooped  a  little,  her  eyes  carefully  re- 
strained from  meeting  Warkworth's.  He  meanwhile 
leaned  against  the  mantel-piece,  irresolute. 

Meredith,  it  was  clear,  made  himself  quite  happy  and 
at  home  in  the  little  drawing  -  room.  The  lame  child 
came  in  and  took  a  stool  beside  him.  He  stroked  her 
head  and  talked  nonsense  to  her  in  the  intervals  of 
holding  forth  to  Julie  on  the  changes  necessary  in  some 
proofs  of  his  which  he  had  brought  back.  Lord  Lack- 
ington,  now  quite  himself  again,  went  back  to  dreams, 
smiling  over  them,  and  quite  unaware  that  the  kitten 
had  been  slyly  ravished  from  him.     The  little  woman  in 

250 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

black  sat  knitting  in  the  background.  It  was  all  curi- 
ously intimate  and  domestic,  only  Warkworth  had  no 
part  in  it. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Le  Breton,"  he  said,  at  last,  hardly 
knowing  his  own  voice.     "I  am  dining  out." 

She  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand.  But  it  dropped  from 
his  like  a  thing  dead  and  cold.  He  went  out  in  a  sudden 
suffocation  of  rage  and  pain;  and  as  he  walked  in  a  blind 
haste  to  Cureton  Street,  he  still  saw  her  standing  in  the 
old  -  fashioned,  scented  room,  so  coldly  graceful,  with 
those  proud,  deep  eyes. 

When  he  had  gone,  Julie  moved  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  into  the  gathering  dusk.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
if  those  in  the  room  must  hear  the  beating  of  her  miser- 
able heart. 

When  she  rejoined  her  companions,  Dr.  l\Ieredith  had 
already  risen  and  was  stuffing  various  letters  and  papers 
into  his  pockets  with  a  view  to  departure. 

"Going?"  said  Lord  Lackington.  "You  shall  see  the 
last  of  me,  too.  Mademoiselle  Julie." 

And  he  stood  up.  But  she,  flushing,  looked  at  him 
with  a  wistful  smile. 

"Won't  you  stay  a  few  minutes?  You  promised  to 
advise  me  about  Th^rese's  drawings." 

"  By  all  means." 

Lord  Lackington  sat  down  again.  The  lame  child,  it 
appeared,  had  some  artistic  talent,  which  Miss  Le  Breton 
wished  to  cultivate.  Meredith  suddenly  found  his  coat 
and  hat,  and,  with  a  queer  look  at  Julie,  departed  in  a 
hurry. 

"Th6rese,  darling,"  said  Julie,  "will  you  go  up-stairs, 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

please,  and  fetch  me  that  book  from  my  room  that  has 
your  little  drawings  inside  it?" 

The  child  limped  away  on  her  errand.  In  spite  of  her 
lameness  she  moved  with  wonderful  lightness  and  swift- 
ness, and  she  was  back  again  quickly  with  a  calf-bound 
book  in  her  hand. 

"L($onie!"  said  Julie,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Madame 
Bornier. 

The  little  woman  looked  up  startled,  nodded,  rolled 
up  her  knitting  in  a  moment,  and  was  gone. 

"Take  the  book  to  his  lordship,  Ther^se,"  she  said, 
and  then,  instead  of  moving  with  the  child,  she  again 
walked  to  the  window,  and,  leaning  her  head  against 
it,  looked  out.  The  hand  hanging  against  her  dress 
trembled  violently. 

"What  did  you  want  me  to  look  at,  my  dear?"  said 
Lord  Lackington,  taking  the  book  in  his  hand  and  put- 
ting on  his  glasses. 

But  the  child  was  puzzled  and  did  not  know.  She 
gazed  at  him  silently  with  her  sweet,  docile  look. 

"Run  away,  Therese,  and  find  mother,"  said  Julie, 
from  the  window. 

The  child  sped  away  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Lord  Lackington  adjusted  his  glasses  and  opened  the 
book.  Two  or  three  slips  of  paper  with  drawings  upon 
them  fluttered  out  and  fell  on  the  table  beneath.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  cry.  Julie  turned  round,  her  lips 
parted. 

Lord  Lackington  walked  up  to  her. 

"Tell  me  what  this  means,"  he  said,  peremptorily. 
"How  did  you  come  by  it?" 

It  was  a  volume  of  George  Sand.     He  pointed,  trem- 

252 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

bling,  to  the  name  and  date  on  the  fly-leaf — "Rose 
Delaney,  1842." 

"It  is  mine,"  she  said,  softly,  dropping  her  eyes. 

"But  how — how,  in  God's  name,  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"My  mother  left  it  to  me,  with  all  her  other  few  books 
and  possessions." 

There  was  a  pause.     Lord  Lackington  came  closer. 
.   "Who  was  your  mother?"  he  said,  huskily. 

The  words  in  answer  were  hardly  audible.  Julie  stood 
before  him  like  a  culprit,  her  beautiful  head  humbly 
bowed. 

Lord  Lackington  dropped  the  book  and  stood  be- 
wildered. 

"Rose's  child?"  he  said — "Rose's  child?" 

Then,  approaching  her,  he  placed  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  he  commanded. 

Julie  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
dumbly  held  out  to  him  a  miniature  she  had  been  keep- 
ing hidden  in  her  hand.  It  was  one  of  the  miniatures 
from  the  locked  triptych. 

He  took  it,  looked  from  the  pictured  to  the  living  face, 
then,  turning  away  with  a  groan,  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands  and  fell  again  into  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  risen. 

Julie  hurried  to  him.  Her  own  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  knelt  down  be- 
side him. 

"I  ought  to  ask  your  pardon  for  not  having  told  you 
before,"  she  murmured. 

It  was  some  time  before  Lord  Lackington  looked  up. 
When  at  last  his  hands  dropped,  the  face  they  uncov- 
ered was  very  white  and  old. 

253 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"So  you,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "are  the  child 
she  wrote  to  me  about  before  she  died?" 

JuHe  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-nine." 

"She  was  thirty-tv.-o  when  I  saw  her  last." 

There  was  a  silence.  Julie  Hfted  one  of  his  hands  and 
kissed  it.     But  he  took  no  notice. 

"You  knov**  that  I  was  going  to  her,  that  I  should 
have  reached  her  in  time" — the  words  seemed  wrung 
from  him — "but  that  I  was  myself  dangerously  ill?" 

"I  know.     I  remember  it  all." 

"Did  she  speak  of  me?" 

"Xot  often.  She  was  very  reserved,  3'ou  remem- 
ber. But  not  long  before  she  died  —  she  seemed  half 
asleep  —  I  heard  her  say,  'Papal  —  Blanche!'  and  she 
smiled." 

Lord  Lackington's  face  contracted,  and  the  slow  tears 
of  old  age  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  like  her  in  some  ways,"  he  said,  brusquely, 
as  though  to  cover  his  emotion;  "but  not  very  like 
her." 

"She  always  thought  I  was  like  you." 

A  cloud  came  over  Lord  Lackington's  face.  Julie 
rose  from  her  knees  and  sat  beside  him.  He  lost  him- 
self a  few  moments  amid  the  painful  ghosts  of  memory. 
Then,  turning  to  her  abruptly,  he  said: 

"  You  have  wondered,  I  dare  say,  why  I  was  so  hard — 
why,  for  seventeen  years,  I  cast  her  off?" 

"Yes,  often.  You  could  have  come  to  see  us  without 
anybody  knowing.     Mother  loved  you  very  much." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  sad.     Lord  Lackington  rose, 

254 


'f:^»*m*i  ilUt^et  C^n^ 


"'for  mv  rose's  child.'    he  said    gently" 


Lady    Rose's   Daughter 

fidgeted  restlessly  with  some  of  the  small  ornamxents  on 
the  mantel-piece,  and  at  last  turned  to  her. 

"She  brought  dishonor,"  he  said,  in  the  same  stifled 
voice,  "and  the  women  of  our  family  have  always  been 
stainless.  But  that  I  could  have  forgiven.  After  a  time 
I  should  have  resumed  relations — private  relations — 
with  her.  But  it  was  your  father  who  stood  in  the  way. 
I  was  then — I  am  now — you  saw  me  with  that  young  fel- 
low just  now — quarrelsome  and  hot-tempered.  It  is  my 
nature."  He  drew  himself  up  obstinately.  "I  can't 
help  it.  I  take  great  pains  to  inform  myself,  then  I  cling 
to  my  opinions  tenaciously,  and  in  argument  my  tem- 
per gets  the  better  of  me.  Your  father,  too,  was  hot- 
tempered.  He  came,  with  my  consent,  once  to  see  me — 
after  your  mother  had  left  her  husband — to  try  and 
bring  about  some  arrangement  between  us.  It  was  the 
Chartist  time.  He  was  a  Radical,  a  Socialist  of  the  most 
extreme  views.  In  the  course  of  our  conversation  some- 
thing was  said  that  excited  him.  He  went  off  at  score. 
I  became  enraged,  and  met  him  with  equal  violence.  We 
had  a  furious  argument,  which  ended  in  each  insulting 
the  other  past  forgiveness.  We  parted  enemies  for  life. 
I  never  could  bring  myself  to  see  him  afterwards,  nor  to 
run  the  risk  of  seeing  him.  Your  mother  took  his  side 
and  espoused  his  opinions  while  he  lived.  After  his 
death,  I  suppose,  she  was  too  proud  and  sore  to  write  to 
me.  I  wrote  to  her  once — it  was  not  the  letter  it  might 
have  been.  She  did  not  reply  till  she  felt  herself  dying. 
That  is  the  explanation  of  what,  no  doubt,  must  seem 
strange  to  you." 

He  turned  to  her  almost  pleadingly.  A  deep  flush 
had  replaced  the  pallor  of  his  first  emotion,  as  though 

255 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

in  the  presence  of  these  primal  reahties  of  love,  death, 
and  sorrow  v/hich  she  had  recalled  to  him,  his  old 
quarrel,  on  a  political  difference,  cut  but  a  miserable 
figure. 

"No,"  she  said,  sadly,  "not  very  strange.  I  under- 
stood my  father — my  dear  father,"  she  added,  with  soft, 
deliberate  tenderness. 

Lord  Lackington  was  silent  a  little,  then  he  threw  her 
a  sudden,  penetrating  look. 

"You  have  been  in  London  three  years.  You  ought 
to  have  told  me  before." 

It  was  Julie's  turn  to  color. 

"Lady  Henry  bound  me  to  secrecy." 

"  Lady  Henry  did  wrong,"  he  said,  with  empha- 
sis. Then  he  asked,  jealously,  with  a  touch  of  his 
natural  irascibility,  "  Who  else  has  been  in  the  se- 
cret?" 

"Four  people,  at  most — the  Duchess,  first  of  all.  I 
couldn't  help  it,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  was  so  unhappy  with 
Lady  Henry." 

"You  should  have  come  to  me.     It  was  my  right." 

"But" — she  dropped  her  head — "you  had  made  it  a 
condition  that  I  should  not  trouble  you." 

He  was  silenced;  and  once  more  he  leaned  against 
the  mantel-piece  and  hid  his  face  from  her,  till,  by  a 
secret  impulse,  both  moved.  She  rose  and  approached 
him ;  he  laid  his  hands  on  her  arms.  With  his  persist- 
ent instinct  for  the  lovely  or  romantic  he  perceived, 
with  sudden  pleasure,  the  grave,  poetic  beauty  of 
her  face  and  delicate  form.  Emotion  had  softened 
away  all  that  was  harsh ;  a  quivering  charm  hov- 
ered over  the  features.     With  a  strange  pride,  and  a 

256 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

sense  of  mystery,  he  recognized  his  daughter  and  his 
race. 

"For  my  Rose's  child,"  he  said,  gently,  and,  stooping, 
he  kissed  her  on  the  brow.  She  broke  out  into  weeping, 
leaning  against  his  shoulder,  while  the  old  man  comforted 
and  soothed  her. 


XV 

AFTER  the  long  conversation  between  herself  and 
l\  Lord  Lackington  which  followed  on  the  momentous 
confession  of  her  identity,  Julie  spent  a  restless  and  weary- 
evening,  which  passed  into  a  restless  and  weary  night. 
Was  she  oppressed  by  this  stirring  of  old  sorrows? — 
haunted  afresh  by  her  parents'  fate? 

Ah !  Lord  Lackington  had  no  sooner  left  her  than  she 
sank  motionless  into  her  chair,  and,  with  the  tears  excited 
by  the  memories  of  her  mother  still  in  her  eyes,  she  gave 
herself  up  to  a  desperate  and  sombre  brooding,  of  which 
Wark worth's  visit  of  the  afternoon  was,  in  truth,  the  sole 
cause,  the  sole  subject. 

Why  had  she  received  him  so?  She  had  gone  too  far 
— much  too  far.  But,  somehow,  she  had  not  been  able 
to  bear  it — that  buoyant,  confident  air,  that  certainty 
of  his  welcome.  No!  She  would  show  him  that  she  was 
not  his  chattel,  to  be  taken  or  left  on  his  own  terms. 
The  careless  good-humor  of  his  blue  eyes  was  too  much, 
after  those  days  she  had  passed  through. 

He,  apparently,  to  judge  from  his  letters  to  her  from 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  had  been  conscious  of  no  crisis  what- 
ever. Yet  he  must  have  seen  from  the  little  Duchess's 
manner,  as  she  bade  farewell  to  him  that  night  at  Crow- 
borough  House,  that  something  was  wrong.  He  must 
have  realized  that  Miss  Lawrence  was  an  intimate  friend 

258 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

of  the  Moffatts,  and  that —  Or  was  he  really  so  foolish 
as  to  suppose  that  his  quasi-engagement  to  this  little 
heiress,  and  the  encouragement  given  him,  in  defiance 
of  the  girl's  guardians,  by  her  silly  and  indiscreet  mother, 
were  still  hidden  and  secret  matters  ? — that  he  could  still 
conceal  them  from  the  world,  and  deny  them  to  Julie? 

Her  whole  nature  was  sore  yet  from  her  wrestle  with 
the  Duchess  on  that  miserable  evening. 

"Julie,  I  can't  help  it!  I  know  it's  impertinent — but 
— Julie,  darling! — do  listen!  What  business  has  that 
man  to  make  love  to  you  as  he  does,  when  all  the  time — 
Yes,  he  does  make  love  to  you — he  does!  Freddie  had 
a  most  ill-natured  letter  from  Lady  Henry  this  morn- 
ing. Of  course  he  had — and  of  course  she'll  write  that 
kind  of  letter  to  as  many  people  as  she  can.  And  it 
wouldn't  matter  a  bit,  if —  But,  you  see,  you  have  been 
moving  heaven  and  earth  for  him!  And  now  his  manner 
to  you  "  (while  the  sudden  flush  burned  her  cheek,  Julie 
wondered  whether  by  chance  the  Duchess  had  seen  any- 
thing of  the  yielded  hands  and  the  kiss)  "  and  that  ill- 
luck  of  his  being  the  first  to  arrive,  last  night,  at  Lady 
Henry's!  Oh,  Julie,  he's  a  wretch — he  is!  Of  course 
he  is  in  love  with  you.  That's  natural  enough.  But  all 
the  time — listen,  that  nice  woman  told  me  the  whole 
story — he's  writing  regularly  to  that  little  girl.  She  and 
her  mother,  in  spite  of  the  guardians,  regard  i'c  as  an  en- 
gagement signed  and  sealed,  and  all  his  friends  believe 
he's  quite  determined  to  marry  her  because  of  the 
money.  You  may  think  me  an  odious  little  meddler, 
Julie,  if  you  like,  but  I  vow  I  could  stab  him  to  the 
heart,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life!" 

And  neither  the  annoyance,  nor  the  dignity,  nor  th« 

259 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ridicule  of  the  supposed  victim — not  Julie's  angry  eyes, 
nor  all  her  mocking  words  from  tremulous  lips — had 
availed  in  the  least  to  silence  the  tumult  of  alarmed 
affection  in  the  Duchess's  breast.  Her  Julie  had  been 
flouted  and  trifled  with;  and  if  she  was  so  blind,  so  in- 
fatuated, as  not  to  see  it,  she  should  at  least  be  driven 
to  realize  what  other  people  felt  about  it. 

So  she  had  her  say,  and  Julie  had  been  forced,  willy- 
nilly,  upon  discussion  and  self-defence  —  nay,  upon  a 
promise  also.  Pale,  and  stiffly  erect,  yet  determined 
all  the  same  to  treat  it  as  a  laughing  matter,  she  had 
vouchsafed  the  Duchess  some  kind  of  assurance  that  she 
would  for  the  future  observe  a  more  cautious  behavior 
towards  Warkworth.  "He  is  my  friend,  and  whatever 
any  one  may  say,  he  .shall  remain  so,"  she  had  said,  with 
a  smiling  stubbornness  which  hid  something  before 
which  the  little  Duchess  shrank.  "But,  of  course,  if  I 
can  do  anything  to  please  you,  Evelyn — you  know  I  like 
to  please  you." 

But  she  had  never  meant,  she  had  never  promised  to 
forswear  his  society,  to  ban  him  from  the  nev/  house. 
In  truth  she  would  rather  have  left  home  and  friends 
and  prospects,  at  one  stroke,  rather  than  have  pledged 
herself  to  anything  of  the  sort.  Evelyn  should  never 
bind  her  to  that. 

Then,  during  his  days  of  absence,  she  had  passed 
through  wave  after  wave  of  feeling,  while  all  the  time 
to  the  outer  eye  she  was  occupied  with  nothing  but  the 
settlement  into  Lady  Mary's  strange  little  house.  She 
washed,  dusted,  placed  chairs  and  tables.  And  mean- 
while a  wild  expectancy  of  his  first  letter  possessed  her. 
Surely  there  would  be  some  anxiety  in  it,  some  fear,  some 

260 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

disclosure  of  himself,  and  of  the  struggle  in  his  mind 
between  interest  and  love? 

Nothing  of  the  kind.  His  first  letter  was  the  letter 
of  one  sure  of  his  correspondent,  sure  of  his  reception  and 
of  his  ground;  a  happy  and  intimate  certainty  shone 
through  its  phrases;  it  was  the  letter,  almost,  of  a  lover 
whose  doubts  are  over. 

The  effect  of  it  was  to  raise  a  tempest,  sharp  and 
obscure,  in  Julie's  mind.  The  contrast  between  the 
pose  of  the  letter  and  the  sly  reality  behind  bred  a  sud- 
den anguish  of  jealousy,  concerned  not  so  much  with 
Warkw^orth  as  with  this  little,  unknown  creature,  who, 
without  any  effort,  any  desert — by  the  mere  virtue  of 
money  and  blood — sat  waiting  in  arrogant  expectancy 
till  what  she  desired  should  come  to  her.  How  was  it 
possible  to  feel  any  compunction  towards  her?  Julie  felt 
none. 

As  to  the  rest  of  Miss  Lawrence's  gossip — that  Wark- 
worth  was  supposed  to  have  "behaved  badly," to  have 
led  the  pretty  child  to  compromise  herself  v/ith  him  at 
Simla  in  ways  which  Simla  society  regarded  as  inadmxis- 
sible  and  "bad  form";  that  the  guardians  had  angrily 
intervened,  and  that  he  was  under  a  promise,  habitually 
broken  by  the  connivance  of  the  girl's  mother,  not  to 
see  or  correspond  with  the  heiress  till  she  was  twenty- 
one,  in  other  words,  for  the  next  two  years — what  did 
these  things  matter  to  her?  Had  she  ever  supposed 
that  Warkworth,  in  regard  to  money  or  his  career,  was 
influenced  by  any  other  than  the  ordinary  worldly  m.o- 
tives?  She  knew  very  well  that  he  was  neither  saint 
nor  ascetic.  These  details  —  or  accusations  —  did  not, 
properly  speaking,  concern  her  at  all.     She  had  divined 

261 


Ladg    Rose's   Daughter 

and  accepted  his  character,  in  all  its  average  human 
selfishness  and  faultiness,  long  ago.  She  loved  him 
passionately  in  spite  of  it — perhaps,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  because  of  it. 

As  for  the  marrying,  or  rather  the  courting,  for  money, 
that  excited  in  her  no  repulsion  whatever.  Julie,  in 
her  own  way,  was  a  great  romantic;  but  owing  to  the 
economic  notions  of  marriage,  especially  the  whole  con- 
ception of  the  dot,  prevailing  in  the  French  or  Belgian 
minds  amid  whom  she  had  passed  her  later  girlhood, 
she  never  dreamed  for  a  moment  of  blaming  Warkworth 
for  placing  money  foremost  in  his  plans  of  matrimony. 
She  resembled  one  of  the  famous  amoureuses  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  who  in  writing  to  the  man  she  loved 
but  could  not  marry  advises  him  to  take  a  wife  to  mend 
his  fortunes,  and  proposes  to  him  various  tempting 
morsels — une  jeune  personne,  sixteen,  with  neither  father 
nor  mother,  only  a  brother.  "They  will  give  her  on  her 
marriage  thirteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  the  aunt 
will  be  quite  content  to  keep  her  and  look  after  her  for 
some  time."  And  if  that  won't  do — "  I  know  a  man  who 
would  be  only  too  happy  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law; 
but  his  daughter  is  only  eleven;  she  is  an  only  child, 
however,  and  she  will  be  very  rich.  You  know,  mon 
ami,  I  desire  your  happiness  above  all  things;  how  to 
procure  it — there  lies  the  chief  interest  of  my  life." 

This  notion  of  things,  more  or  less  disguised,  was  to 
Julie  customary  and  familiar;  and  it  was  no  more  incom- 
patible in  her  with  the  notions  and  standards  of  high 
sentiment,  such  as  she  might  be  supposed  to  have  de- 
rived from  her  parents,  than  it  is  in  the  Latin  races 
generally. 

262 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

No  doubt  it  had  been  mingled  in  her,  especially  since 
her  settlement  in  Lady  Henry's  house,  with  the  more 
English  idea  of  "falling  in  love" — the  idea  which  puts 
personal  choice  first  in  marriage,  and  makes  the  matter 
of  dowry  subordinate  to  that  mysterious  election  and 
affinity  which  the  Englishman  calls  "love."  Certainly, 
during  the  winter,  Julie  had  hoped  to  lead  Warkworth 
to  marry  her.  As  a  poor  man,  of  course,  he  must  have 
money.  But  her  secret  feeling  had  been  that  her  place 
in  society,  her  influence  with  important  people,  had  a 
money  value,  and  that  he  would  perceive  this. 

Well,  she  had  been  a  mere  trusting  fool,  and  he  had 
deceived  her.  There  was  his  crime  —  not  in  seeking 
money  and  trusting  to  money.  He  had  told  her  false- 
hoods and  misled  her.  He  was  doing  it  still.  His  letter 
implied  that  he  loved  her?  Possibly.  It  implied  to 
Julie's  ear  still  more  plainly  that  he  stood  tacitly  and 
resolutely  by  Aileen  Moffatt  and  her  money,  and  that  all 
he  was  prepared  to  offer  to  the  dear  friend  of  his  heart 
was  a  more  or  less  ambiguous  relation,  lasting  over 
two  years  perhaps — till  his  engagement  might  be  an- 
nounced. 

A  dumb  and  bitter  anger  mounted  within  her.  She 
recalled  the  manner  in  which  he  had  evaded  her  first 
questions,  and  her  opinion  became  very  much  that  of  the 
Duchess.  She  had,  indeed,  been  mocked,  and  treated  like 
a  child.  So  she  sent  no  answer  to  his  first  letter,  and 
when  his  second  came  she  forbade  herself  to  open  it.  It 
lay  there  on  her  writing-table.  At  night  she  transferred 
it  to  the  table  beside  her  bed,  and  early  in  the  spring 
dawn  her  groping  fingers  drew  it  trembling  towards  her 
and  sHpped  it  under  her  pillow.     By  the  time  the  full 

263 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

morning  had  come  she  had  opened  it,  read  and  re-read 
it — had  bathed  it,  indeed,  with  her  tears. 

But  her  anger  persisted,  and  when  Warkworth  ap- 
peared on  her  threshold  it  flamed  into  sudden  expression. 
She  would  make  him  realize  her  friends,  her  powerful 
friends — above  all,  she  would  make  him  realize  Dela- 
field. 

Well,  now  it  was  done.  She  had  repelled  her  lover. 
She  had  shown  herself  particularly  soft  and  gracious 
to  Delafield.  Warkworth  now  would  break  with  her — 
might,  perhaps,  be  glad  of  the  chance  to  return  safely 
and  without  further  risks  to  his  heiress. 

She  sat  on  in  the  dark,  thinking  over  every  word, 
every  look.     Presently  Therese  stole  in. 

"Mademoiselle,  le  souper  sera  bient6t  pret." 

Julie  rose  wearily,  and  the  child  slipped  a  thin  hand 
into  hers. 

"J'aime  tant  ce  vieux  monsieur,"  she  said,  softly. 
"Je  I'aime  tant!" 

Julie  started.  Her  thoughts  had  wandered  far,  in- 
deed, from  Lord  Lackington. 

As  she  went  up-stairs  to  her  little  room  her  heart  re- 
proached her.  In  their  interview  the  old  man  had  shown 
great  sweetness  of  feeling,  a  delicate  and  remorseful  ten- 
derness, hardly  to  have  been  looked  for  in  a  being  so  fan- 
tastic and  self-willed.  The  shock  of  their  conversation 
had  deepened  the  lines  in  a  face  upon  which  age  had  at 
last  begun  to  make  those  marks  which  are  not  another 
beauty,  but  the  end  of  beauty.  When  she  had  opened 
the  door  for  him  in  the  dusk,  JuHe  had  longed,  indeed, 
to  go  with  him  and  soothe  his  solitary  evening.  His  un- 
married son,  William,  lived  with  him  intermittently,  but 

264 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

his  wife  was  dead.  Lady  Blanche  seldom  came  to 
town,  and,  for  the  most  part,  he  lived  alone  in  the  fine 
house  in  St.  James's  Square,  of  which  she  had  heard  her 
mother  talk. 

He  liked  her — had  liked  her  from  the  first.  How  nat- 
ural that  she  should  tend  and  brighten  his  old  age — how 
natural,  and  how  impossible!  He  was  not  the  man  to 
brave  the  difficulties  and  discomforts  inseparable  from 
the  sudden  appearance  of  an  illegitimate  granddaughter 
in  his  household,  and  if  he  had  been,  Julie,  in  her  fierce, 
new-born  independence,  would  have  shrunk  from  such  a 
step.  But  she  had  been  drawn  to  him;  her  heart  had 
yearned  to  her  kindred. 

No ;  neither  love  nor  kindred  were  for  her.  As  she  en- 
tered the  little,  bare  room  over  the  doorway,  which  she 
had  begun  to  fill  with  books  and  papers,  and  all  the  signs 
of  the  literary  trade,  she  miserably  bid  herself  be  con- 
tent with  what  was  easily  and  certainly  within  her  grasp. 
The  world  was  pleased  to  say  that  she  had  a  remarkable 
social  talent.  Let  her  give  her  mind  to  the  fight  with 
Ladv  Henry,  and  prove  whether,  after  all,  the  salon 
could  not  be  acclimatized  on  English  soil.  She  had  the 
literary  instinct  and  aptitude,  and  she  must  earn  money. 
She  looked  at  her  half- written  article,  and  sighed  to  her 
books  to  save  her. 

That  evening  Therfese,  who  adored  her,  watched  her 
with  a  wistful  and  stealthy  affection.  Her  idol  was 
strangely  sad  and  pale.  But  she  asked  no  questions. 
All  she  could  do  was  to  hover  about  "mademoiselle" 
with  soft,  flattering  services,  till  mademoiselle  went,  to 
bed,  and  then  to  lie  awake  herself,  quietly  waiting  till  all 
sounds  in  the  room  opposite  had  died  away,  and  she  m.ight 

265 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

comfort  her  dumb  and  timid  devotion  with  the  hope  that 
Julie  slept. 

Sleep,  however,  or  no  sleep,  Julie  was  up  early  next 
day.  Before  the  post  arrived  she  was  already  dressed, 
and  on  the  point  of  descending  to  the  morning  coffee, 
which,  in  the  old,  frugal,  Bruges  fashion,  she  and  Leonie 
and  the  child  took  in  the  kitchen  together.  Lady  Hen- 
ry's opinion  of  her  as  a  soft  and  luxurious  person  de- 
pendent on  dainty  living  was,  in  truth,  absurdly  far  from 
the  mark.  After  those  years  of  rich  food  and  many  ser- 
vants in  Lady  Henry's  household,  she  had  resumed  the 
penurious  Belgian  ways  at  once,  without  effort — indeed, 
with  alacrity.  In  the  morning  she  helped  Leonie  and 
Th6r^se  with  the  housework.  Her  quick  fingers  washed 
and  rubbed  and  dusted.  In  less  than  a  week  she  knew 
every  glass  and  cup  in  Cousin  Mary  Leicester's  well- 
filled  china  cupboard,  and  she  and  Therese  between  them 
kept  the  two  sitting-rooms  spotless.  She  who  had  at 
once  made  friends  and  tools  of  Lady  Henry's  servants, 
disdained,  so  it  appeared,  to  be  served  beyond  what  was 
absolutely  necessary  in  her  own  house.  A  charwoman, 
indeed,  came  in  the  morning  for  the  roughest  work,  but 
by  ten  o'clock  she  was  gone,  and  Julie,  Madame  Bornier, 
and  the  child  remained  in  undisputed  possession.  Little, 
flat-nosed,  silent  Madame  Bornier  bought  and  brought 
in  all  they  ate.  She  denounced  the  ways,  the  viands,  the 
brigand's  prices  of  English  foiirnisseurs,  but  it  seemed 
to  Julie,  all  the  same,  that  she  handled  them  with  a 
Napoleonic  success.  She  bought  as  the  French  poor 
buy,  so  far  as  the  West  End  would  let  her,  and  Julie  had 
soon  perceived  that  their  expenditure,  even  in  this  heart 
of  Mayfair,  would  be  incredibly  small.     Whereby  she 

266 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

felt  herself  more  and  more  mistress  of  her  fate.  By  her 
own  unaided  hands  would  she  provide  for  herself  and 
her  household.  Each  year  there  should  be  a  little  mar- 
gin, and  she  would  owe  no  man  anything.  After  six 
months,  if  she  could  not  afford  to  pay  the  Duke  a  fair 
rent  for  his  house — always  supposing  he  allowed  her  to 
remain  in  it — she  would  go  elsewhere. 

As  she  reached  the  hall,  clad  in  an  old  serge  dress, 
which  was  a  survival  from  Bruges  days,  Th^rese  ran  up 
to  her  with  the  letters. 

Julie  looked  through  them,  turned  and  went  back  to 
her  room.  She  bad  expected  the  letter  which  lay  on  the 
top,  and  she  must  brace  herself  to  read  it. 

It  began  abruptly: 

"You  will  hardly  wonder  that  I  should  write  at  once  to 
ask  if  you  have  no  explanation  to  give  me  of  your  manner 
of  this  afternoon.  Again  and  again  I  go  over  what  hap- 
pened, but  no  light  comes.  It  was  as  though  you  had 
wiped  out  all  the  six  months  of  our  friendship ;  as  though  I 
had  become  for  you  once  more  the  merest  acquaintance. 
It  is  impossible  that  I  can  have  been  mistaken.  You 
meant  to  make  me — and  others? — clearly  understand — 
what?  That  I  no  longer  deserved  your  kindness — that  you 
had  broken  altogether  with  the  man  on  whom  you  had  so 
foolishly  bestowed  it  ? 

"My  friend,  what  have  I  done?  Hov/  have  I  sinned? 
Did  that  sour  lady,  who  asked  me  questions  she  had  small 
business  to  ask,  tell  you  tales  that  have  set  your  heart 
against  me?  But  what  have  incidents  and  events  that  hap- 
pened, or  may  have  happened,  in  India,  got  to  do  with  our 
friendship,  which  grew  up  for  definite  reasons  and  has  come 
to  mean  so  much — has  it  not  ? — to  both  of  us  ?  I  am  not  a 
model  person,  Heaven  knows! — very  far  from  it.  There  are 
n.— 3  267 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

scores  of  things  in  my  life  to  be  ashamed  of.  And  please 
remember  that  last  year  I  had  never  seen  you;  if  I  had, 
much  might  have  gone  differently. 

"But  how  can  I  defend  myself?  I  owe  you  so  much. 
Ought  not  that,  of  itself,  to  m^ake  you  realize  how  great  is 
j^our  power  to  hurt  me,  and  how  small  are  m.y  powers  of  re- 
sistance? The  humiliations  you  can  inflict  upon  me  are  in- 
finite, and  I  have  no  rights,  no  weapons,  against  3'ou. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  saying.  It  is  very  l?.te,  and 
I  am  writing  this  after  a  dinner  at  the  club  given  me  by 
two  or  three  of  my  brother  officers.  It  was  a  dinner  in  my 
honor,  to  congratulate  me  on  my  good  fortune.  They  are 
good  fellows,  and  it  should  have  been  a  merry  time.  But 
my  half  hour  in  your  room  had  killed  all  power  of  enjoy- 
ment for  me.  They  found  me  a  wretched  companion,  and 
w^e  broke  up  early.  I  came  home  through  the  empty  streets, 
wishing  myself,  with  all  my  heart,  away  from  England — 
facing  the  desert.  Let  me  just  say  this.  It  is  not  of  good 
omen  that  now,  when  I  want  all  my  faculties  at  their  best, 
I  should  suddenly  find  myself  invaded  by  this  distress  and 
despondency.  You  have  some  responsibility  now  in  my 
life  and  career;  if  you  would,  you  cannot  get  rid  of  it.  You 
have  not  increased  the  chances  of  your  friend's  success  in 
his  great  task. 

"You  see  how  I  restrain  myself.  I  could  write  as  madly 
as  I  feel — violently  and  madly.  But  of  set  purpose  we 
pitched  our  relation  in  a  certain  key  and  measure ;  and  I  try, 
at  least,  to  keep  the  measure,  if  the  m.usic  and  the  charm 
must  go.  But  why,  in  God's  name,  should  they  go?  Why 
have  you  turned  against  me  ?  You  have  listened  to  slander- 
ers ;  you  have  secretly  tried  me  by  tests  that  are  not  in  the 
bargain,  and  you  have  judged  and  condemned  me  without 
a  hearing,  without  a  word.     I  can  tell  you  I  am  pretty  sore. 

"I  will  come  and  see  you  no  more  in  company  for  the 
present.     You  gave  me  a  footing  with  you,  which  has  its 

268 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

own  dignit3^  I'll  guard  it;  not  even  from  you  will  I  accept 
anything  else.  But — unless,  indeed,  the  grove  is  cut  down 
and  the  bird  flown  forever — let  me  come  when  you  are  alone. 
Then  charge  me  with  what  you  will.  I  am  an  earthy  creat- 
ure, struggling  through  life  as  I  best  can,  and,  till  I  saw  you, 
struggling  often,  no  doubt,  in  very  earthy  ways.  I  am  not 
a  philosopher,  nor  an  idealist,  with  expectations,  like  Dela- 
field.  This  rough-and-tumble  world  is  all  I  know.  It's 
good  enough  for  me — good  enough  to  love  a  friend  in,  as — 
I  vow  to  God,  Julie! — I  have  loved  you. 

"There,  it's  out,  and  you  must  put  up  with  it.  I  couldn't 
help  it.     I  am  too  miserable. 

"But— 

"  But  I  won't  write  any  more.  I  shall  stay  in  m.y  rooms 
till  twelve  o'clock.     You  owe  me  promptness." 

Julie  put  down  the  letter. 

She  looked  round  her  little  study  with  a  kind  of 
despair — the  despair  perhaps  of  the  prisoner  who  had 
thought  himself  delivered,  only  to  find  himself  caught 
in  fresh  and  stronger  bonds.  As  for  ambition,  as  for 
literature — here,  across  their  voices,  broke  this  voice  of 
the  senses,  this  desire  of  "the  moth  for  the  star."  And 
she  was  powerless  to  resist  it.  Ah,  why  had  he  not  ac- 
cepted his  dismissal — quarrelled  with  her  at  once  and 
forever  ? 

She  understood  the  letter  perfectly — what  it  offered, 
and  what  it  tacitly  refused.  An  intimate  and  exciting 
friendship — for  two  years.  For  two  years  he  was  ready 
to  fill  up  such  time  as  he  could  spare  from  his  clandes- 
tine correspondence  with  her  cousin,  with  this  roman- 
tic, interesting,  but  unprofitable  affection.     And  then? 

She  fell  again  upon  his  letter.     Ah,  but  there  was  a 

269 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

new  note  in  it — a  hard,  strained  note,  which  gave  her  a 
kind  of  desperate  joy.  It  seemed  to  her  that  for  months 
she  had  been  covetously  listening  for  it  in  vain. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  necessary  to  him;  he  had 
suffered — through  her.  Never  before  could  she  say  that 
to  herself.  Pleasure  she  had  given  him,  but  not  pain; 
and  it  is  pain  that  is  the  test  and  consecration  of — 

Of  what?  .  .  .  Well,  now  for  her  answer.  It  was 
short. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  thought  me  rude.  I  was  tired  with 
talking  and  unpacking,  and  with  literary  work — house- 
work, too,  if  the  truth  were  known.  I  am  no  longer  a  fine 
lady,  and  must  slave  for  myself.  The  thought,  also,  of  an 
interview  with  Lord  Lackington  which  faced  me,  which  I 
went  through  as  soon  as  you,  Dr.  Meredith,  and  Mr.  Dela- 
field  had  gone,  unnerved  me.  You  were  good  to  write  to 
me,  and  I  am  grateful  indeed.  As  to  your  appointment, 
and  your  career,  you  owe  no  one  anything.  Everything  is 
in  your  own  hands.  I  rejoice  in  your  good  fortune,  and  I 
beg  that  you  will  let  no  false  ideas  with  regard  to  me  trouole 
your  mind. 

"This  afternoon  at  five,  if  you  can  forgive  me,  you  will 
find  me.  In  the  early  afternoon  I  shall  be  in  the  British 
Museum,  for  my  work's  sake." 

She  posted  her  letter,  and  went  about  her  daily  house- 
work, oppressed  the  while  by  a  mental  and  moral  nausea. 
As  she  washed  and  tidied  and  dusted,  a  true  housewife's 
love  growing  up  in  her  for  the  little  house  and  its  charm- 
ing, old-world  appointments — a  sort  of  mute  relation  be- 
tween her  and  it,  as  though  it  accepted  her  for  mistress, 
and  she  on  her  side  vowed  it  a  delicate  and  prudent  care 
— she  thought  how  she  could  have  delighted  in  this  life 

37Q 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

which  had  opened  upon  her  had  it  come  to  her  a  year 
ago.  The  tasks  set  her  by  Meredith  were  congenial  and 
within  her  power.  Her  independence  gave  her  the 
keenest  pleasure.  The  effort  and  conquests  of  the  in- 
tellect— she  had  the  mind  to  love  them,  to  desire  them; 
and  the  way  to  them  was  unbarred. 

What  plucked  her  back? 

A  tear  fell  upon  the  old  china  cup  that  she  was  dust- 
ing. A  sort  of  maternal  element  had  entered  into  her 
affection  for  Warkworth  during  the  winter.  She  had 
upheld  him  and  fought  for  him.  And  now,  like  a  mother, 
she  could  not  tear  the  unworthy  object  from  her  heart, 
though  all  the  folly  of  their  pseudo-friendship  and  her 
secret  hopes  lay  bare  before  her. 

Warkworth  came  at  five. 

He  entered  in  the  dusk;  a  little  pale,  with  his  grace- 
ful head  thrown  back,  and  that  half-startled,  timid  look 
in  his  wide,  blue  eyes  —  that  misleading  look — which 
made  him  the  boy  still,  when  he  chose. 

Julie  was  standing  near  the  window  as  he  came  in. 
As  she  turned  and  saw  him  there,  a  flood  of  tenderness 
and  compunction  swept  over  her.  He  was  going  away. 
What  if  she  never  saw  him  again? 

She  shuddered  and  came  forward  rapidly,  eagerly. 
He  read  the  meaning  of  her  movement,  her  face;  and, 
wringing  her  hands  with  a  violence  that  hurt  her,  he 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Why — why  " — he  said,  under  his  breath — "have  you 
made  me  so  unhappy?" 

The  blood  leaped  in  her  veins.  These,  indeed,  were 
new  words  in  a  new  tone. 

271 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Don't  let  us  reproach  each  other,"  she  said.  "There 
is  so  much  to  say.     Sit  down." 

To  -  day  there  were  no  beguiHng  spring  airs.  The 
fire  burned  merrily  in  the  grate ;  the  windows  were 
closed. 

A  scent  of  narcissus — the  Duchess  had  filled  the  tables 
with  flowers — floated  in  the  room.  Amid  its  old-fash- 
ioned and  distinguished  bareness — tempered  by  flowers, 
and  a  litter  of  foreign  books — Julie  seemed  at  last  to 
have  found  her  proper  frame.  In  her  severe  black  dress, 
opening  on  a  delicate  vest  of  white,  she  had  a  muselike 
grace;  and  the  wreath  made  by  her  superb  black  hair 
round  the  fine  intelligence  of  her  brow  had  never  been 
more  striking.  Her  slender  hands  busied  themselves 
with  Cousin  Mary  Leicester's  tea-things;  and  every 
movement  had  in  Warkworth's  eyes  a  charm  to  which 
he  had  never  yet  been  sensible,  in  this  manner,  to  this 
degree. 

"Am  I  really  to  say  no  more  of  yesterday?"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  nervously. 

Her  flush,  her  gesture,  appealed  to  him. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  had  before  me — that  day — 
when  you  came  in?"  she  said,  softly. 

"No.  I  cannot  guess.  Ah,  you  said  something  about 
Lord  Lackington?" 

She  hesitated.     Then  her  color  deepened. 

"You  don't  know  my  story.  You  suppose,  don't 
you,  that  I  am  a  Belgian  with  English  connections, 
whom  Lady  Henry  met  by  chance?  Isn't  that  how 
you  explain  me?" 

Warkworth  had  pushed  aside  his  cup. 

"  I  thought — " 

272 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

He  paused  in  embarrassment,  but  there  was  a  sparkle 
of  astonished  expectancy  in  his  eyes. 

"My  mother  " — she  looked  away  into  the  blaze  of  the 
fire,  and  her  voice  choked  a  little  —  "my  mother  was 
Lord  Lackington's  daughter." 

"Lord  Lackington's  daughter?"  echoed  Warkworth, 
in  stupefaction.  A  rush  of  ideas  and  inferences  sped 
through  his  mind.  He  thought  of  Lady  Blanche — things 
heard  in  India — and  while  he  stared  at  her  in  an  agi- 
tated silence  the  truth  leaped  to  light. 

"Not — not  Lady  Rose  Delaney?"  he  said,  bending 
forward  to  her. 

She  nodded. 

"My  father  was  Marriott  Dalrymple.  You  will  have 
heard  of  him.  I  should  be  Julie  Dalrymple,  but — they 
could  never  marry — because  of  Colonel  Delaney." 

Her  face  was  still  turned  away. 

All  the  details  of  that  famous  scandal  began  to  come 
back  to  him.  His  companion,  her  history,  her  relations 
to  others,  to  himself,  began  to  appear  to  him  in  the  most 
astonishing  new  lights.  So,  instead  of  the  mere  humble 
outsider,  she  belonged  all  the  time  to  the  best  English 
blood?  The  society  in  which  he  had  met  her  was  full 
of  her  kindred.  No  doubt  the  Duchess  knew  —  and 
Montresor.  .  .  .  He  was  meshed  in  a  net  of  thoughts 
perplexing  and  confounding,  of  which  the  total  result 
was  perhaps  that  she  appeared  to  him  as  she  sat  there, 
the  slender  outline  so  quiet  and  still,  more  attractive 
and  more  desirable  than  ever.  The  mystery  surround- 
ing her  in  some  way  glorified  her,  and  he  dimly  per- 
ceived that  so  it  must  have  been  for  others. 

"How  did  you  ever  bear  the  Bruton  Street  life?"  he 
273 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

said,  presently,  in  a  low  voice  of  wonder.  "  Lady  Henry 
knew?" 

"Oh  yes!" 

"And  the  Duchess?" 

"Yes.     She  is  a  connection  of  my  mother's." 

Warkworth's  mind  went  back  to  the  Moffatts.  A 
flush  spread  slowly  over  the  face  of  the  young  officer. 
It  was  indeed  an  extraordinary  imbroglio  in  which  he 
found  himself. 

"How  did  Lord  Lackington  take  it?"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  He  was,  of  course,  much  startled,  much  moved.  We 
had  a  long  talk.  Everything  is  to  remain  just  the  same. 
He  wishes  to  make  me  an  allowance,  and,  if  he  persists, 
I  suppose  I  can't  hurt  him  by  refusing.  But  for  the 
present  I  have  refused.  It  is  more  amusing  to  earn  one's 
own  living."  She  turned  to  him  with  a  sharp  brightness 
in  her  black  eyes.  "Besides,  if  Lord  Lackington  gives 
me  money,  he  will  want  to  give  me  advice.  And  I  would 
rather  advise  myself." 

Warkworth  sat  silent  a  moment.  Then  he  took  a 
great  resolve. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  suddenly,  putting 
out  his  hand  to  hers,  which  lay  on  her  knee. 

She  turned  to  him,  startled. 

"I  want  to  have  no  secrets  from  you,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing his  breath  quickly.  "I  told  you  lies  one  day,  be- 
cause I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  lies.  Another 
person  was  concerned.  But  now  I  can't.  Julie! — 
you'll  let  me  call  you  so,  won't  you?  The  name  is  al- 
ready"— he  hesitated;  then  the  words  rushed  out — 
"part  of  my  life!     Julie,  it's  quite  true,  there  is  a  kind 

274 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

of  understanding  between  your  little  cousin  Aileen  and 
me.  At  Simla  she  attracted  me  enormously.  I  lost  my 
head  one  day  in  the  woods,  when  she — whom  we  were 
all  courting — distinguished  me  above  two  or  three  other 
men  who  were  there.  I  proposed  to  her  upon  a  sud- 
den impulse,  and  she  accepted  me.  She  is  a  charming, 
soft  creature.  Perhaps  I  wasn't  justified.  Perhaps  she 
ought  to  have  had  more  chance  of  seeing  the  world. 
Anyway,  there  was  a  great  row.  Her  guardians  in- 
sisted that  I  had  behaved  badly.  They  could  not  know 
all  the  details  of  the  matter,  and  I  was  not  going  to  tell 
them.     Finally  I  promised  to  withdraw  for  two  years." 

He  paused,  anxiously  studying  her  face.  It  had  grown 
very  white,  and,  he  thought,  very  cold.  But  she  quickly 
rose,  and,  looking  down  upon  him,  said: 

"Nothing  of  that  is  news  to  me.  Did  you  think  it 
was?" 

And  moving  to  the  tea  -  table,  she  began  to  make 
provision  for  a  fresh  supply  of  tea. 

Both  words  and  manner  astounded  him.  He,  too,  rose 
and  followed  her. 

"How  did  you  first  guess?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

"Some  gossip  reached  me."  She  looked  up  with  a 
smile.     "That's  what  generally  happens,  isn't  it?" 

"There  are  no  secrets  nowadays,"  he  said,  sorely. 
"And  then,  there  was  Miss  Lawrence?" 

"Yes,  there  was  Miss  Lawrence." 

"Did  you  think  badly  of  me?" 

"Why  should  I?  I  understand  Aileen  is  very  pretty, 
and — " 

"And  will  have  a  large  fortune.  You  understand 
that?"  he  said,  trying  to  carry  it  off  lightly. 

275 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"The  fact  is  well  known,  isn't  it?" 

He  sat  down,  twisting  his  hat  between  his  hands. 
Then  with  an  exclamation  he  dashed  it  on  the  floor,  and, 
rising,  he  bent  over  Julie,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Julie,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook  her,  "don't,  for 
God's  sake,  give  me  up!  I  have  behaved  abominably, 
but  don't  take  your  friendship  from  me.  I  shall  soon 
be  gone.  Our  lives  will  go  different  ways.  That  was 
settled — alack! — before  we  met.  I  am  honorably  bound 
to  that  poor  child.  She  cares  for  me,  and  I  can't  get 
loose.  But  these  last  months  have  been  happy,  haven't 
they?  There  are  just  three  weeks  left.  At  present  the 
strongest  feeling  in  my  heart  is — "  He  paused  for  his 
word,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  looking  through  the  win- 
dow to  the  trees  of  the  garden,  and  that,  still  as  she  was, 
her  lip  quivered. 

"What  shall  I  say?"'  he  resumed,  with  emotion.  "It 
seems  to  me  our  case  stands  all  by  itself,  alone  in  the 
world.  We  have  three  weeks — give  them  to  me.  Don't 
let's  play  at  cross  purposes  any  more.  I  want  to  be  sin- 
cere— I  want  to  hide  nothing  from  you  in  these  days. 
Let  us  throw  aside  convention  and  trust  each  other,  as 
friends  may,  so  that  when  I  go  we  may  say  to  each 
other,  '  Well,  it  was  worth  the  pain.  These  have  been 
days  of  gold — we  shall  get  no  better  if  we  live  to  be  a 
hundred.'  " 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  in  a  tremulous  amazement 
and  there  were  tears  on  her  cheek.  Never  had  his  as- 
pect been  so  winning.  What  he  proposf^H  was,  in  truth, 
a  mean  thing;  all  the  same,  he  proposed  it  nobly. 

It  was  in  vain  that  something  whispered  in  her  ear: 
"This  girl  to  whom  he  describes  himself  as  'honorably 

276 


Ladtj    Rose's    Daughter 

bound'  has  a  fortune  of  half  a  million.  He  is  deter- 
mined to  have  both  her  money  and  my  heart."  An- 
other inward  voice,  tragically  generous,  dashed  down 
the  thought,  and,  at  the  moment,  rightly;  for  as  he 
stood  over  her,  breathless  and  imperious,  to  his  own 
joy,  to  his  own  exaltation,  Warkworth  was  conscious  of 
a  new  sincerity  flowing  in  a  tempestuous  and  stormy 
current  through  all  the  veins  of  being. 

With  a  sombre  passion  which  already  marked  an 
epoch  in  their  relation,  and  contained  within  itself  the 
elements  of  new  and  unforeseen  developments,  she  gazed 
silently  into  his  face.  Then,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
she  once  more  held  out  to  him  both  her  hands. 

He  gave  an  exclamation  of  joy,  kissed  the  hands  ten- 
derly, and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Now,  then,  all  your  cares,  all  your  thoughts,  all  your 
griefs  are  to  be  mine — till  fate  call  us.  And  I  have  a 
thousand  things  to  tell  you,  to  bless  you  for,  to  consult 
you  about.  There  is  not  a  thought  in  my  mind  that  you 
shall  not  know — bad,  good,  and  indifferent — if  you  care 
to  turn  out  the  rag-bag.  Shall  I  begin  with  the  morn- 
ing— my  experiences  at  the  club,  my  little  nieces  at  the 
Zoo?"  He  laughed,  but  suddenly  grew  serious  again. 
"No,  your  story  first;  you  owe  it  me.  Let  me  know  all 
that  concerns  you.  Your  past,  your  sorrows,  ambitions — 
everything." 

He  bent  to  her  imperiously.  With  a  faint,  broken 
smile,  her  hands  still  in  his,  she  assented.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  begin,  then  difficult  to  control  the  flood  of  mem- 
ory; and  it  had  long  been  dark  when  Madame  Bornier, 
coming  in  to  light  the  lamp  and  make  up  the  fire,  dis- 
turbed an  intimate  and  searching  conversation,  which 

277 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

had  revealed  the  two  natures  to  each  other  with  an  agi- 
tating fulness. 

Yet  the  results  of  this  memorable  evening  upon  Julie 
Le  Breton  were  ultimately  such  as  few  could  have  fore- 
seen. 

When  Warkworth  had  left  her,  she  went  to  her  own 
room  and  sat  for  a  long  while  beside  the  window,  gazing 
at  the  dark  shrubberies  of  the  Cureton  House  garden,  at 
the  few  twinkling,  distant  lights. 

The  vague,  golden  hopes  she  had  cherished  through 
these  past  months  of  effort  and  scheming  were  gone  for- 
ever. Warkworth  would  marry  Aileen  Moffatt,  and  use 
her  money  for  an  ambitious  career.  After  these  weeks 
now  lying  before  them — weeks  of  dangerous  intimacy, 
dangerous  emotion — she  and  he  would  become  as  stran- 
gers to  each  other.  He  would  be  absorbed  by  his  pro- 
fession and  his  rich  marriage.  She  would  be  left  alone  to 
live  her  life. 

A  sudden  terror  of  her  own  weakness  overcame  her. 
No,  she  could  not  be  alone.  She  must  place  a  barrier 
between  herself  and  this — this  strange  threatening  of 
illimitable  ruin  that  sometimes  rose  upon  her  from  the 
dark.  "I  have  no  prejudices,"  she  had  said  to  Sir  Wil- 
frid. There  were  many  moments  when  she  felt  a  fierce 
pride  in  the  element  of  lawlessness,  of  defiance,  that 
seemed  to  be  her  inheritance  from  her  parents.  But 
to-night  she  was  afraid  of  it. 

Again,  if  love  was  to  go,  power,  the  satisfaction  of  am- 
bition, remained.  She  threw  a  quick  glance  into  the 
future — the  future  beyond  these  three  weeks.  What 
could  she   make  of   it  ?     She  knew  well  that  she  was 

278 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

not  the  woman  to  resign  herself  to  a  mere  pining  ob- 
scurity. 

Jacob  Delafield?     Was  it,  after  all,  so  impossible? 

For  a  few  minutes  she  set  herself  deliberately  to  think 
out  what  it  would  mean  to  marry  him;  then  suddenly 
broke  down  and  wept,  with  inarticulate  cries  and  sobs, 
with  occasional  reminiscences  of  her  old  convent's  praj-- 
ers,  appeals  half  conscious,  instinctive,  to  a  God  only 
half  believed. 


XVI 


DELAFIELD  was  walking  through  the  Park  towards 
Victoria  Gate.  A  pair  of  beautiful  roans  pulled  up 
suddenly  beside  him,  and  a  little  figure  with  a  waving 
hand  bent  to  him  from  a  carriage. 

"Jacob,  where  are  you  off  to?  Let  me  give  you  a 
lift?" 

The  gentleman  addressed  took  off  his  hat. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  want  some  exercise.  I 
say,  where  did  Freddie  get  that  pair?" 

"  I  don't  know,  he  doesn't  tell  me.  Jacob,  3-ou  must 
get  in.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Rather  unwillingly,  Delafield  obeyed,  and  away  they 
sped. 

"  J'ai  un  tas  de  choses  a  vous  dire,"  she  said,  speaking 
low,  and  in  French,  so  as  to  protect  herself  from  the  ser- 
vants in  front.      "Jacob,  I'm  very  unhappy  about  Julie." 

Delafield  frowned  uncomfortably. 

"Why?     Hadn't  you  better  leave  her  alone?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  you  think  me  a  chatterbox.  I 
don't  care.  You  7}iust  let  me  tell  you  some  fresh  news 
about  her.  It  isn't  gossip,  and  you  and  I  are  her  best 
friends.  Oh,  Freddie's  so  disagreeable  about  her.  Jacob, 
you've  got  to  help  and  advise  a  little.  Now,  do  listen. 
It's  your  duty — your  downright  catechism  duty." 

And  she  poured  into  his  reluctant  ear  the  tale  which 

280 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Miss  Emily  Lawrence  nearly  a  fortnight  before  had  con- 
fided to  her. 

"Of  course,"  she  wound  up,  " you'll  say  it's  only  what 
we  knew  or  guessed  long  ago.  But  you  see,  Jacob,  we 
didn't  know.  It  might  have  been  just  gossip.  And 
then,  besides  " — she  frowned  and  dropped  her  voice  till 
it  was  only  just  audible— "  this  horrid  man  hadn't  made 
our  Juhe  so — so  conspicuous,  and  Lady  Henry  hadn't 
turned  out  such  a  toad  —  and,  altogether,  Jacob,  I'm 
dreadfully  worried." 

"Don't  be,"  said  Jacob,  dryly. 

"And  what  a  creature!"  cried  the  Duchess,  unheed- 
ing. "They  say  that  poor  Moffatt  child  will  soon  have 
fretted  herself  ill,  if  the  guardians  don't  give  way  about 
the  two  years." 

"What  two  years?" 

"The  two  years  that  she  must  wait — till  she  is  twenty- 
one.  Oh,  Jacob,  you  know  that!"  exclaimed  the  Duch- 
ess, impatient  with  him.    "  I've  told  you  scores  of  times." 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  interested  in  Miss  Moffatt's  af- 
fairs." 

"But  you  ought  to  be,  for  they  concern  Julie,"  cried 
the  Duchess.  "Can't  you  imagine  what  kind  of  things 
people  are  saying?  Lady  Henry  has  spread  it  about 
that  it  was  all  to  see  him  she  bribed  the  Bruton  Street 
servants  to  let  her  give  the  Wednesday  party  as  usual — 
that  she  had  been  flirting  with  him  abominably  for 
months,  and  using  Lady  Henry's  name  in  the  most  im- 
pertinent ways.  And  now,  suddenly,  everybody  seems 
to  know  something  about  this  Indian  engagement.  You 
may  imagine  it  doesn't  look  very  well  for  our  poor  Julie, 
The  other  night'  at  Chatton  House  I  was  furious.     I 

281 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

made  Julie  go.  I  wanted  her  to  show  herself,  and  keep 
up  her  friends.  Well,  it  was  horrid!  One  or  two  old 
frights,  who  used  to  be  only  too  thankful  to  Julie  for 
reminding  Lady  Henry  to  invite  them,  put  their  noses 
in  the  air  and  behaved  odiously.  And  even  some  of  the 
nicer  ones  seemed  changed — I  could  see  Julie  felt  it." 

"Nothing  of  all  that  will  do  her  any  real  harm,"  said 
Jacob,  rather  contemptuously. 

"  Well,  no.  I  know,  of  course,  that  her  real  friends  will 
never  forsake  her  —  never,  never!  But,  Jacob"  —  the 
Duchess  hesitated,  her  charming  little  face  furrowed  with 
thought — "if  only  so  much  of  it  weren't  true.  She  her- 
self—" 

"Please,  Evelyn,"  said  Delafield,  with  decision,  "don't 
tell  me  anything  she  may  have  said  to  you." 

The  Duchess  flushed. 

"I  shouldn't  have  betrayed  any  confidence,"  she  said, 
proudly.  "And  I  must  consult  with  some  one  who 
cares  about  her.  Dr.  Meredith  lunched  with  me  to-day, 
and  he  said  a  few  words  to  me  afterwards.  He's  quite 
anxious,  too — and  unhappy.  Captain  Warkworth's  al- 
ways there — always!  Even  I  have  been  hardly  able  to 
see  her  the  last  few  days.  Last  Sunday  they  took  the 
little  lame  child  and  went  into  the  country  for  the  whole 
day—" 

"Well,  what  is  there  to  object  to  in  that?"  cried 
Jacob. 

"I  didn't  say  there  was  anything  to  object  to,"  said 
the  Duchess,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  half  angry,  half 
perplexed.  "Only  it's  so  unlike  her.  She  had  prom- 
ised to  be  at  home  that  afternoon  for  several  old  friends, 
and  they  found  her  flown,  without  a  word.     And  think 

282 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

how  sweet  Julie  is  always  about  such  things — what  de- 
licious notes  she  writes,  how  she  hates  to  put  anybody- 
out  or  disappoint  them!  And  now,  not  a  word  of  ex- 
cuse to  anybody.  And  she  looks  so  ill — so  white,  so  fixed 
— like  a  person  in  a  dream  which  she  can't  shake  off.  I'm 
just  miserable  about  her.  And  I  hate,  hate  that  man — 
engaged  to  her  own  cousin  all  the  time!"  cried  the  little 
Duchess,  under  her  breath,  as  she  passionately  tore  some 
violets  at  her  waist  to  pieces  and  flung  them  out  of  the 
carriage.     Then  she  turned  to  Jacob. 

"But,  of  course,  if  you  don't  care  twopence  about  all 
this,  Jacob,  it's  no  good  talking  to  you!" 

Her  taunt  fell  quite  unnoticed.  Jacob  turned  to  her 
with  smiling  composure. 

"You  have  forgotten,  my  dear  Evelyn,  all  this  time, 
that  Warkworth  goes  away  —  to  mid  -  Africa  —  in  little 
more  than  two  weeks." 

"I  wish  it  was  two  minutes,"  said  the  Duchess, 
fuming. 

Delafield  made  no  reply  for  a  while.  He  seemed  to 
be  studying  the  eft'ect  of  a  pale  shaft  of  sunlight  which 
had  just  come  stealing  down  through  layers  of  thin  gray 
cloud  to  dance  upon  the  Serpentine.  Presently,  as  they 
left  the  Serpentine  behind  them,  he  turned  to  his  com- 
panion with  more  apparent  sympathy. 

"We  can't  do  anything,  Evelyn,  and  we've  no  right 
whatever  to  talk  of  alarm,  or  anxiety — to  talk  of  it,  mind! 
It's — it's  disloyal.  Forgive  mxC,"  he  added,  hastily,  "I 
know  you  don't  gossip.  But  it  fills  me  with  rage  that 
other  people  should  be  doing  it." 

The  brusquerie  of  his  manner  disconcerted  the  little 
lady  beside  him.  She  recovered  herself,  however,  and 
"•  -4  283 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

said,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  tempered  by  a  rather 
trembling  lip : 

"Your  rage  won't  prevent  their  gossiping,  Mr.  Jacob; 
I  thought,  perhaps,  your  friendship  might  have  done 
something  to  stop  it — to — to  influence  Julie,"  she  added, 
uncertainly. 

"My  friendship,  as  you  call  it,  is  of  no  use  whatever," 
he  said,  obstinately.  "Wark worth  will  go  away,  and  if 
you  and  others  do  their  best  to  protect  Miss  Le  Breton, 
talk  will  soon  die  out.  Behave  as  if  you  had  never  heard 
the  man's  name  before — stare  the  people  down.  Why, 
good  Heavens!  you  have  a  thousand  arts!  But,  of 
course,  if  the  little  flame  is  to  be  blown  into  a  blaze  by 
a  score  of  so-called  friends — " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

The  Duchess  did  not  take  his  rebukes  kindly,  not  hav- 
ing, in  truth,  deserved  them. 

"You  are  rude  and  unkind,  Jacob,"  she  said,  almost 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "And  you  don't  understand 
— it  is  because  I  myself  am  so  anxious—" 

"  For  that  reason,  play  the  part  with  all  your  might," 
he  said,  unyieldingly.  "  Really,  even  you  and  I  oughtn't 
to  talk  of  it  any  more.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  want 
very  much  to  know  about  Miss  Le  Breton." 

He  bent  towards  her,  smiling,  though  in  truth  he  was 
disgusted  with  himself,  vexed  with  her,  and  out  of  tune 
with  all  the  world. 

The  Duchess  made  a  little  face. 

"All  very  well,  but  after  such  a  lecture  as  you  have 
indulged  in,  I  think  I  prefer  not  to  say  any  more  about 
Julie." 

"Do.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself — except  that  I  don't 
284 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

retract  one  word,  not  one.  Be  kind,  all  the  same,  and 
tell  me — if  you  know — has  she  spoken  to  Lord  Lacking- 
ton?" 

The  Duchess  still  frowned,  but  a  few  more  apologetic 
expressions  on  his  part  restored  a  temper  that  had  al- 
ways a  natural  tendency  to  peace.  Indeed,  Jacob's 
boutades  never  went  long  unpardoned.  An  only  child 
herself,  he,  her  first  cousin,  had  played  the  part  of  brother 
in  her  life,  since  the  days  when  she  first  tottered  in  long 
frocks,  and  he  had  never  played  it  in  any  mincing  fash- 
ion. His  words  were  often  blunt.  She  smarted  and  for- 
gave— much  more  quickly  than  she  forgave  her  husband. 
But  then,  with  him,  she  was  in  love. 

So  she  presently  vouchsafed  to  give  Jacob  the  news 
that  Lord  Lackington  at  last  knew  the  secret — that  he 
had  behaved  well — had  shown  much  feeling,  in  fact — so 
that  poor  Julie — 

But  Jacob  again  cut  short  the  sentimentalisms,  the 
little  touching  phrases  in  which  the  woman  delighted. 

"What  is  he  going  to  do  for  her?"  he  said,  impatient- 
ly. "Will  he  make  any  provision  for  her?  Is  there  any 
way  by  which  she  can  live  in  his  house — take  care  of 
him?" 

The  Duchess  shook  her  head. 

"At  seventy-five  one  can't  begin  to  explain  a  thing 
as  big  as  that.  Juhe  perfectly  understands,  and  doesn't 
wish  it." 

"But  as  to  money?"  persisted  Jacob. 

"Julie  says  nothing  about  money.  How  odd  j^ou  are, 
Jacob !  I  thought  that  was  the  last  thing  needful  in  your 
eyes." 

Jacob  did  not  reply.     If  he  had,  he  would  probably 

285 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

have  said  that  what  was  harmful  or  useless  for  men 
might  be  needful  for  women — for  the  weakness  of  wom- 
en. But  he  kept  silence,  while  the  vague  intensity  of 
the  eyes,  the  pursed  and  tv/isted  mouth,  showed  that 
his  mind  was  full  of  thoughts. 

Suddenly  he  perceived  that  the  carriage  was  nearing 
Victoria  Gate.  He  called  to  the  coachman  to  stop,  and 
jumped  out. 

"Good-bye,  Evelyn.  Don't  bear  me  malice.  You're 
a  good  friend,"  he  said  in  her  ear — "a  real  good  friend. 
But  don't  let  people  talk  to  you — not  even  elderly  ladies 
with  the  best  intentions.  I  tell  you  it  will  be  a  fiight, 
and  one  of  the  best  weapons  is" — he  touched  his  lips 
significantly,  smiled  at  her,  and  was  gone. 

The  Duchess  passed  out  of  the  Park.  Delafield  turned 
as  though  in  the  direction  of  the  Marble  Arch,  but  as 
soon  as  the  carriage  was  out  of  sight  he  paused  and 
quickly  retraced  his  steps  towards  Kensington  Gardens. 
Here,  in  this  third  week  of  March,  some  of  the  thorns  and 
lilacs  were  already  in  leaf.  The  grass  was  springing,  and 
the  chatter  of  many  sparrows  filled  the  air.  Faint 
patches  of  sun  flecked  the  ground  between  the  trees,  and 
blue  hazes,  already  redeemed  from  the  dreariness  of 
winter,  filled  the  dim  planes  of  distance  and  mingled 
with  the  low,  silvery  clouds.  He  found  a  quiet  spot, 
remote  from  nursery-maids  and  children,  and  there  he 
wandered  to  and  fro,  indefinitely,  his  hands  behind  his 
back.  All  the  anxieties  for  which  he  had  scolded  his 
cousin  possessed  him,  only  sharpened  tenfold;  he  was  in 
torture,  and  he  was  helpless. 

However,  when  at  last  he  emerged  from  his  solitude, 
and  took  a  hansom  to  the  Chudleigh  estate  office  in 

286 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Spring  Gardens,  he  resolutely  shook  off  the  thoughts 
which  had  been  weighing  upon  him.  He  took  his  usual 
interest  in  his  work,  and  did  it  with  his  usual  capacity. 

Towards  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Delafield  found 
himself  in  Cureton  Street.  As  he  turned  down  Heribert 
Street  he  saw  a  cab  in  front  of  him.  It  stopped  at  Miss 
Le  Breton's  door,  and  Warkworth  jumped  out.  The 
door  was  quickly  opened  to  him,  and  he  went  in  without 
having  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  man  at  the  far  corner 
of  the  street. 

Delafield  paused  irresolute.  Finally  he  walked  back 
to  his  club  in  Piccadilly,  where  he  dawdled  over  the 
newspapers  till  nearly  seven. 

Then  he  once  more  betook  himself  to  Heribert  Street. 

"Is  Miss  Le  Breton  at  home?" 

Therese  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  flickering  of  her 
clear  eyes. 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  she  said,  with  soft  hesitation,  and 
she  slowly  led  him  across  the  hall. 

The  drawing-room  door  opened.  Major  Warkworth 
emerged. 

"Ah,  how  do  you  do?"  he  said,  shortly,  staring  in 
a  kind  of  bewilderment  as  he  saw  Delafield.  Then  he 
hurriedly  looked  for  his  hat,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and 
was  gone. 

"Announce me,  please,"  said  Delafield,  peremptorily, 
to  the  little  girl.  "Tell  Miss  Le  Breton  that  I  am  here." 
And  he  drew  back  from  the  open  door  of  the  drawing- 
room.     Therese  slipped  in,  and  reappeared. 

"  Please  to  walk  in,  sir,"  she  said,  in  her  shy,  low  voice, 
and  Delafield  entered.     From  the  hall  he  had  caught  one 

287 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

involuntary  glimpse  of  Julie,  standing  stiff  and  straight 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  hands  clasped  to  her 
breast — a  figure  in  pain.  When  he  went  in,  she  was  in 
her  usual  seat  by  the  fire,  with  her  embroidery  frame  in 
front  of  her. 

"May  I  come  in?     It  is  rather  late." 

"Oh,  by  all  means!  Do  you  bring  me  any  news  of 
Evelyn?     I  haven't  seen  her  for  three  days." 

He  seated  himself  beside  her.  It  was  hard,  indeed,  for 
him  to  hide  all  signs  of  the  tumult  within.  But  he  held 
a  firm  grip  upon  himself. 

"I  saw  Evelyn  this  afternoon.  She  complained  that 
you  had  had  no  time  for  her  lately." 

Julie  bent  over  her  work.  He  saw  that  her  fingers  were 
so  unsteady  that  she  could  hardly  make  them  obey  her. 

"There  has  been  a  great  deal  to  do,  even  in  this  little 
house.  Evelyn  forgets;  she  has  an  army  of  servants; 
we  have  only  our  hands  and  our  time." 

She  looked  up,  smiling.  He  made  no  reply,  and  the 
smile  died  from  her  face,  suddenly,  as  though  some  one 
had  blown  out  a  light.  She  returned  to  her  work,  or 
pretended  to.  But  her  aspect  had  left  him  inwardly 
shaken.  The  eyes,  disproportionately  large  and  brilliant, 
were  of  an  emphasis  almost  ghastly,  the  usually  clear 
complexion  was  flecked  and  cloudy,  the  mouth  dry- 
lipped.  She  looked  much  older  than  she  had  done  a 
fortnight  before.  And  the  fact  was  the  more  noticeable 
because  in  her  dress  she  had  now  wholly  discarded  the 
touch  of  stateliness — almost  old-maidishness — which  had 
once  seemed  appropriate  to  the  position  of  Lady  Henry's 
companion.  She  was  wearing  a  little  gown  of  her  youth, 
a  blue  cotton,  which  two  years  before  had  been  put  aside 

28S 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

as  too  slight  and  juvenile.  Never  had  the  form  within 
it  seemed  so  girlish,  so  appealing.  But  the  face  was 
heart-rending. 

After  a  pause  he  moved  a  little  closer  to  her. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  looking  quite  ill?" 

"Then  my  looks  are  misleading.     I  am  very  well." 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  put  much  faith  in  that  remark. 
When  do  you  mean  to  take  a  holiday?" 

"Oh,  very  soon.  L6ome,  my  little  housekeeper,  talks 
of  going  to  Bruges  to  wind  up  all  her  affairs  there  and 
bring  back  some  furniture  that  she  has  warehoused. 
I  may  go  with  her.  I,  too,  have  some  property  stored 
there.  I  should  go  and  see  some  old  friends  —  the 
scBurs,  for  instance,  with  whom  I  went  to  school.  In 
the  old  days  I  was  a  torment  to  them,  and  they  were 
tyrants  to  me.  But  they  are  quite  nice  to  me  now — 
they  give  me  patisserie,  and  stroke  my  hands  and  spoil 
me." 

And  she  rattled  on  about  the  friends  she  might  re- 
visit, in  a  hollow,  perfunctory  way,  which  set  him  on 
edge. 

"I  don't  see  that  anything  of  that  kind  will  do  you 
any  good.  You  want  rest  of  mind  and  body.  I  expect 
those  last  scenes  with  Lady  Henry  cost  you  more  than 
you  knew.  There  are  wounds  one  does  not  notice  at 
the  time — " 

"Which  afterwards  bleed  inwardly?"  She  laughed. 
"No,  no,  I  am  not  bleeding  for  Lady  Henry.  By-the- 
way,  what  news  of  her?" 

"Sir  Wilfrid  told  me  to-day  that  he  had  had  a  letter. 
She  is  at  Torquay,  and  she  thinks  there  are  too  many 
curates  at  Torquay.     She  is  not  at  all  in  a  good  temper." 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Julie  looked  up. 

"  You  know  that  she  is  trying  to  punish  me.  A  great 
many  people  seem  to  have  been  written  to." 

"That  will  blow  over." 

"I  don't  know.  How  confident  I  was  at  one  time 
that,  if  there  was  a  breach,  it  would  be  Lady  Henry 
that  would  suffer!  It  makes  me  hot  to  remember  some 
things  I  said — to  Sir  Wilfrid,  in  particular.  I  see  now 
that  I  shall  not  be  troubled  with  society  in  this  Httle 
house." 

"It  is  too  early  for  you  to  guess  anything  of  that 
kind." 

"Not  at  all!  London  is  pretty  full.  The  affair  has 
made  a  noise.  Those  who  meant  to  stand  by  me  would 
have  called,  don't  you  think?" 

The  quivering  bitterness  of  her  face  was  most  pitiful 
in  Jacob's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  people  take  their  time,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak 
lightly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  ridiculous  that  I  should  care.  One's  self-love, 
I  suppose — that  bleeds!  Evelyn  has  made  me  send  out 
cards  for  a  little  house-warming.  She  said  I  must.  She 
made  me  go  to  that  smart  party  at  Chatton  House  the 
other  night.  It  was  a  great  mistake.  People  turned 
their  backs  on  me.  And  this,  too,  will  be  a  mistake — 
and  a  failure." 

"You  were  kind  enough  to  send  me  a  card." 

"Yes — and  you  must  come?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  nervous  appeal,  which 
made  another  tug  on  his  self-control. 

"Of  course  I  shall  come." 

290 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Do  you  remember  your  own  saying  —  that  awful 
evening — that  I  had  devoted  friends?  Well,  we  shall 
soon  see." 

"That  depends  only  on  yourself,"  he  replied,  with 
gentle  deliberation. 

She  started — threw  him  a  doubtful  look. 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  must  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
I  am  afraid  I  can't.     I  am  too  tired." 

And  she  sank  back  in  her  chair. 

The  sigh  that  accompanied  the  words  seemed  to  him 
involuntary,  unconscious. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  —  altogether,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment. 

She  moved  restlessly. 

"Then,  really,  I  don't  know  what  you  meant.  I  sup- 
pose all  friendship  depends  on  one's  self." 

She  drew  her  embroidery  frame  towards  her  again, 
and  he  was  left  to  wonder  at  his  own  audacity.  "Do 
you  know,"  she  said,  presently,  her  eyes  apparently  busy 
with  her  silks,  "that  I  have  told  Lord  Lackington?" 

"Yes.  Evelyn  gave  me  that  news.  How  has  the  old 
man  behaved?" 

"  Oh,  very  well — most  kindly.  He  has  already  formed 
a  habit,  almost,  of  'dropping  in'  upon  me  at  all  hours. 
I  have  had  to  appoint  him  times  and  seasons,  or  there 
would  be  no  work  done.  He  sits  here  and  raves  about 
young  Mrs.  Delaray — you  know  he  is  painting  her 
portrait,  for  the  famous  series? — and  draws  her  profile 
on  the  backs  of  my  letters.  He  recites  his  speeches  to 
me;  he  asks  my  advice  as  to  his  fights  with  his  tenants 
or  his  miners.     In  short,  I'm  adopted — I'm  almost  the 

real  thing." 

391 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

She  smiled,  and  then  again,  as  she  turned  over  her 
silks,  he  heard  her  sigh — a  long  breath  of  weariness.  It 
was  strange  and  terrible  in  his  ear — the  contrast  between 
this  unconscious  sound,  drawn  as  it  were  from  the  op- 
pressed heart  of  pain,  and  her  languidly,  smiling  words. 

"  Has  he  spoken  to  you  of  the  Moffatts?"  he  asked  her, 
presently,  not  looking  at  her. 

A  sharp  crimson  color  rushed  over  her  face. 

"Not  much.  He  and  Lady  Blanche  are  not  great 
friends.  And  I  have  made  him  promise  to  keep  my 
secret  from  her  till  I  give  him  leave  to  tell  it." 

"It  will  have  to  be  known  to  her  some  time,  will  it 
not?" 

"Perhaps."  she  said,  impatiently.  "Perhaps,  when 
I  can  make  up  my  mind." 

Then  she  pushed  aside  her  frame  and  would  talk  no 
more  about  Lord  Lackington.  She  gave  him,  somehow, 
the  impression  of  a  person  suffocating,  struggling  for 
breath  and  air.  And  yet  her  hand  was  icy,  and  she 
presently  went  to  the  fire,  complaining  of  the  east  wind ; 
and  as  he  put  on  the  coal  he  saw  her  shiver. 

"Shall  I  force  her  to  tell  me  everything?"  he  thought 
to  himself. 

Did  she  divine  the  obscure  struggle  in  his  mind?  At 
any  rate  she  seemed  anxious  to  cut  short  their  tHe-a-tete. 
She  asked  him  to  come  and  look  at  some  engravings 
which  the  Duchess  had  sent  round  for  the  embellishment 
of  the  dining  -  room.  Then  she  summoned  Madame 
Bomier,  and  asked  him  a  number  of  questions  on 
Leonie's  behalf,  with  reference  to  some  little  investment 
of  the  ex-governess's  savings,  which  had  been  dropping 
in   value.     Meanwhile,    as   she   kept   him   talking,   she 

292 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

leaned  herself  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  forgetting 
every  now  and  then  that  any  one  else  was  there,  and 
letting  the  true  self  appear,  like  some  drowned  thing 
floating  into  sight.  Delafield  disposed  of  Madame  Bor- 
nier's  affairs,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said,  but  show- 
ing in  truth  his  usual  conscience  and  kindness.  Then 
when  L^onie  was  contented,  Julie  saw  the  little  cripple 
crossing  the  hall,  and  called  to  her. 

"Ah,  ma  chdrie!     How  is  the  poor  little  foot?" 

And  turning  to  Delafield,  she  explained  volubly  that 
Th^rdse  had  given  herself  a  slight  twist  on  the  stairs  that 
morning,  pressing  the  child  to  her  side  the  while  with  a 
tender  gesture.     The  child  nestled  against  her. 

"Shall  maman  keep  back  supper?"  Th^rese  half  whis- 
pered, looking  at  Delafield. 

"No,  no,  I  must  go!"  cried  Delafield,  rousing  himself 
and  looking  for  his  hat. 

"I  would  ask  you  to  stay,"  said  Julie,  smiling,  "just 
to  show  off  Leonie's  cooking;  but  there  wouldn't  be 
enough  for  a  great  big  man.  And  you're  probably 
dining  with  dukes." 

Delafield  disclaimed  any  such  intention,  and  they  went 
back  to  the  drawing-room  to  look  for  his  hat  and  stick. 
Julie  still  had  her  arm  round  Th^rese  and  would  not  let 
the  child  go.  She  clearly  avoided  being  left  alone  with 
him ;  and  yet  it  seemed,  even  to  his  modesty,  that  she  was 
loath  to  see  him  depart.  She  talked  first  of  her  little 
minage,  as  though  proud  of  their  daily  economies  and 
contrivances ;  then  of  her  literary  work  and  its  prospects ; 
then  of  her  debt  to  Meredith.  Never  before  had  she  thus 
admitted  him  to  her  domestic  and  private  Hfe.  It  was 
as  though  she  leaned  upon  his  sympathy,  his  advice,  his 

293 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

mere  neighborhood.  And  her  pale,  changed  face  had 
never  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful — never,  in  fact,  truly 
beautiful  till  now.  The  dying  down  of  the  brilliance 
and  energy  of  the  strongly  marked  character,  which  had 
made  her  the  life  of  the  Bruton  Street  salon,  into  this 
mildness,  this  despondency,  this  hidden  weariness,  had 
left  her  infinitely  more  lovely  in  his  eyes.  But  how  to 
restrain  himself  much  longer  from  taking  the  sad, 
gracious  woman  in  his  arms  and  coercing  her  into  sanity 
and  happiness! 

At  last  he  tore  himself  away. 

"You  won't  forget  Wednesday?"  she  said  to  him,  as 
she  followed  him  into  the  hall. 

"No.  Is  there  anything  else  that  you  wish — that  I 
could  do?" 

"No,  nothing.     But  if  there  is  I  will  ask." 

Then,  looking  up,  she  shrank  from  something  in  his 
face — something  accusing,  passionate,  profound. 

He  wrung  her  hand. 

"Promise  that  you  will  ask." 

She  murmured  something,  and  he  turned  away. 

She  came  back  alone  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Oh,  what  a  good  man!"  she  said,  sighing.  "What  a 
good  man!" 

And  then,  all  in  a  moment,  she  was  thankful  that  he 
was  gone — that  she  was  alone  with  and  mistress  of  her 
pain. 

The  passion  and  misery  which  his  visit  had  inter- 
rupted swept  back  upon  her  in  a  rushing  swirl,  blinding 
and  choking  every  sense.  Ah,  what  a  scene,  to  which 
his  coming  had  put  an  end — scene  of  bitterness,  of  re- 

294 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

crimination,  not  restrained  even  by  this  impending  an- 
guish of  parting! 

It  came  as  a  close  to  a  week  during  which  she  and 
Warkworth  had  been  playing  the  game  which  they  had 
chosen  to  play,  according  to  its  appointed  rules — the  del- 
icacies and  restraints  of  friendship  masking,  and  at  the 
same  time  inflaming,  a  most  unhappy,  poisonous,  and 
growing  love.  And,  finally,  there  had  risen  upon  them 
a  storm -wave  of  feeling  —  tyrannous,  tempestuous — 
bursting  in  reproach  and  agitation,  leaving  behind  it, 
bare  and  menacing,  the  old,  ugly  facts,  unaltered  and 
unalterable. 

Warkworth  was  little  less  miserable  than  herself. 
That  she  knew.  He  loved  her,  as  it  were,  to  his  own 
anger  and  surprise.  And  he  suffered  in  deserting  her, 
more  than  he  had  ever  suffered  yet  through  any  human 
affection. 

But  his  purpose  through  it  all  remained  stubbornly 
fixed;  that,  also,  she  knew.  For  nearly  a  year  Aileen 
Moffatt's  fortune  and  Aileen  Moffatt's  family  connec- 
tions had  entered  into  all  his  calculations  of  the  future. 
Only  a  few  more  years  in  the  army,  then  retirement 
with  ample  means,  a  charming  wife,  and  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment. To  jeopardize  a  plan  so  manifestly  desirable,  so 
easy  to  carry  out,  so  far-reaching  in  its  favorable  effects 
upon  his  life,  for  the  sake  of  those  hard  and  doubtful  al- 
ternatives in  which  a  marriage  with  Julie  would  involve 
him,  never  seriously  entered  his  mind.  When  he  suf- 
fered he  merely  said  to  himself,  steadily,  that  time  would 
heal  the  smart  for  both  of  them. 

"Only  one  thing  would  be  absolutely  fatal  for  all  of 
us — that  I  should  break  with  Aileen." 

295 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Julie  read  these  obscure  processes  in  Warkworth's 
mind  with  perfect  clearness.  She  was  powerless  to 
change  them;  but  that  afternoon  she  had,  at  any  rate, 
beaten  her  wings  against  the  bars,  and  the  exhaustion 
and  anguish  of  her  revolt,  her  reproaches,  were  still  upon 
her. 

The  spring  night  had  fallen.  The  room  was  hot,  and 
she  threw  a  window  open.  Some  thorns  in  the  garden 
beneath  had  thickened  into  leaf.  They  rose  in  a  dark 
mass  beneath  the  window.  Overhead,  beyond  the  haze 
of  the  great  city,  a  few  stars  twinkled,  and  the  dim  roar 
of  London  life  beat  from  all  sides  upon  this  quiet  corner 
which  still  held  Lady  Mary's  old  house. 

Julie's  eyes  strained  into  the  darkness;  her  head  swam 
with  weakness  and  weariness.  Suddenly  she  gave  a  cry 
— she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  heart.  Upon  the  dark- 
ness outside  there  rose  a  face,  so  sharply  drawn,  so  life- 
like, that  it  printed  itself  forever  upon  the  quivering  tis- 
sues of  the  brain.  It  was  Wark worth's  face,  not  as  she 
had  seen  it  last,  but  in  some  strange  extremity  of  physical 
ill — drawn,  haggard,  in  a  cold  sweat — the  eyes  glazed, 
the  hair  matted,  the  parched  lips  open  as  though  they 
cried  for  help.  She  stood  gazing.  Then  the  eyes  turned, 
and  the  agony  in  them  looked  out  upon  her. 

Her  whole  sense  was  absorbed  by  the  phantom;  her 
being  hung  upon  it.  Then,  as  it  faded  on  the  quiet 
trees,  she  tottered  to  a  chair  and  hid  her  face.  Com- 
mon-sense told  her  that  she  was  the  victim  of  her  own 
tired  nerves  and  tortured  fancy.  But  the  memory  of 
Cousin  Mar}'-  Leicester's  second  sight,  of  her  "visions" 
in  this  very  room,  crept  upon  her  and  gripped  her  heart. 
A  ghostly  horror  seized  her  of  the  room,  the  house,  and 

296 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

her  own  tempestuous  nature.  She  groped  her  way  out, 
in  bHnd  and  hurrying  panic — glad  of  the  lamp  in  the  hall, 
glad  of  the  sounds  in  the  house,  glad,  above  all,  of  Th6- 
rfese's  thin  hands  as  they  once  more  stole  lovingly  round 
her  own. 


XVII 

THE  Duchess  and  Julie  were  in  the  large  room  of 
Burlington  House.  They  had  paused  before  a  mag- 
nificent Turner  of  the  middle  period,  hitherto  unseen  bv 
the  public,  and  the  Duchess  was  reading  from  the  cata- 
logue in  Julie's  ear. 

She  had  found  Julie  alone  in  Heribert  Street,  sur- 
rounded by  books  and  proofs,  endeavoring,  as  she  re- 
ported, to  finish  a  piece  of  work  for  Dr.  Meredith.  Dis- 
tressed by  her  friend's  pale  cheeks,  the  Duchess  had 
insisted  on  dragging  her  from  the  prison  -  house  and 
changing  the  current  of  her  thoughts.  Julie,  laughing, 
hesitating,  indignant,  had  at  last  yielded — probably  in 
order  to  avoid  another  tHe-a-tHe  and  another  scene  with 
the  little,  impetuous  lady,  and  now  the  Duchess  had  her 
safe  and  was  endeavoring  to  amuse  her. 

But  it  was  not  easy.  Julie,  generally  so  instructed 
and  sympathetic,  so  well  skilled  in  the  difficult  art  of 
seeing  pictures  with  a  friend,  might,  to-day,  never  have 
turned  a  phrase  upon  a  Constable  or  a  Romney  before. 
She  tried,  indeed,  to  turn  them  as  usual ;  but  the 
Duchess,  sharply  critical  and  attentive  where  her  be- 
loved Julie  was  concerned,  perceived  the  difference 
acutely!  Alack,  what  languor,  what  fatigue!  Evelyn 
became  more  and  more  conscious  of  an  inward  conster- 
nation. 

298 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

' '  But,  thank  goodness,  he  goes  to-morrow — the  villain ! 
And  when  that's  over,  it  will  be  all  right." 

Julie,  meanwhile,  knew  that  she  was  observed,  divined, 
and  pitied.  Her  pride  revolted,  but  it  could  wring  from 
her  nothing  better  than  a  passive  resistance.  She  could 
prevent  Evelyn  from  expressing  her  thoughts;  she  could 
not  so  command  her  own  bodily  frame  that  the  Duchess 
should  not  think.  Days  of  moral  and  mental  struggle, 
nights  of  waking,  combined  with  the  serious  and  sus- 
tained effort  of  a  new  profession,  had  left  their  mark. 
There  are,  moreover,  certain  wounds  to  self-love  and  self- 
respect  which  poison  the  whole  being. 

"Julie!  you  must  have  a  holiday!"  cried  the  Duchess, 
presently,  as  they  sat  down  to  rest. 

Julie  replied  that  she,  Madame  Bomier,  and  the  child 
were  going  to  Bruges  for  a  week. 

"Oh,  but  that  won't  be  comfortable  enough!  I'm 
sure  I  could  arrange  something.  Think  of  all  our  tire- 
some houses — eating  their  heads  off!" 

Julie  firmly  refused.  She  was  going  to  renew  old 
friendships  at  Bruges;  she  would  be  made  much  of;  and 
the  prospect  was  as  pleasant  as  any  one  need  wish. 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  have  made  up  your  mind. 
When  do  you  go?" 

"In  three  or  four  days — just  before  the  Easter  rush. 
And  you?" 

"  Oh,  we  go  to  Scotland  to  fish.  We  must,  of  course, 
be  killing  something.  How  long,  darling,  will  you  be 
away?" 

"About  ten  days."  Julie  pressed  the  Duchess's  little 
hand  in  acknowledgment  of  the  caressing  word  and 
look. 

II.— s  299 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  By-the-way,  didn't  Lord  Lackington  invite  you? 
Ah,  there  he  is!" 

And  suddenly,  Lord  Lackington,  examining  with  fury 
a  picture  of  his  own  which  some  rascally  critic  had 
that  morning  pronounced  to  be  "  Venetian  school  " 
and  not  the  divine  Giorgione  himself,  lifted  an  angry 
countenance  to  find  the  Duchess  and  Julie  beside 
him. 

The  start  which  passed  through  him  betrayed  itself. 
He  could  not  yet  see  Julie  with  composure.  But  when 
he  had  pressed  her  hand  and  inquired  after  her  health, 
he  went  back  to  his  grievance,  being  indeed  rejoiced  to 
have  secured  a  pair  of  listeners. 

"Really,  the  insolence  of  these  fellows  in  the  press! 
I  shall  let  the  Academy  know  what  I  think  of  it.  Not  a 
rag  of  mine  shall  they  ever  see  here  again.  Ears  and 
little  fingers,  indeed!     Idiots  and  owls!" 

Julie  smiled.  But  it  had  to  be  explained  to  the 
Duchess  that  a  wise  man,  half  Italian,  half  German, 
had  lately  arisen  who  proposed  to  judge  the  authen- 
ticity of  a  picture  by  its  ears,  assisted  by  any  peculiar- 
ities of  treatment  in  the  little  fingers. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  the  Duchess,  with  a  yawn. 
"  If  I  were  an  artist,  I  should  always  draw  them  differ- 
ent ways." 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  said  Lord  Lackington,  who,  as  an 
artist  himself,  was  unfortunately  debarred  from  state- 
ments of  this  simplicity.  "  But  the  ludicrous  way  in 
which  these  fools  overdo  their  little  discoveries!" 

And  he  walked  on,  fuming,  till  the  open  and  un- 
measured admiration  of  the  two  ladies  for  his  great 
Rembrandt,  the  gem  of  his  collection,  now  occupying  the 

300 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

place  of  honor  in  the  large  room  of  the  Academy,  restored 
him  to  himself. 

'Ah,  even  the  biggest  ass  among  them  holds  his  tongue 
about  that!"  he  said,  exultantly.  "But,  hallo!  What 
does  that  call  itself?"  He  looked  at  a  picture  in  front 
of  him,  then  at  the  catalogue,  then  at  the  Duchess. 

"  That  picture  is  ours,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  Isn't  it  a 
dear?     It's  a  Leonardo  da  Vinci." 

"Leonardo  fiddlesticks!"  cried  Lord  Lackington. 
"Leonardo,  indeed!  What  absurdity!  Really,  Duchess, 
you  should  tell  Crowborough  to  be  more  careful  about 
his  things.     We  mustn't  give  handles  to  these  fellows." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  Duchess,  offended. 
"If  it  isn't  a  Leonardo,  pray  what  is  it?" 

"Why,  a  bad  school  copy,  of  course!"  said  Lord 
Lackington,  hotly.  "Look  at  the  eyes" — he  took  out 
a  pencil  and  pointed — "look  at  the  neck,  look  at  the 
fingers!" 

The  Duchess  pouted. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "Then  there  is  something  in  fin- 
gers!" 

Lord  Lackington 's  face  suddenly  relaxed.  He  broke 
into  a  shout  of  laughter,  bon  enfant  that  he  was ;  and  the 
Duchess  laughed,  too ;  but  under  cover  of  their  merriment 
she,  mindful  of  quite  other  things,  drew  him  a  little 
farther  away  from  Julie. 

"I  thought  you  had  asked  her  to  Nonpareil  for 
Easter?"  she  said,  in  his  ear,  with  a  motion  of  her  pretty 
head  towards  Julie  in  the  distance. 

"Yes,  but,  my  dear  lady,  Blanche  won't  come  home! 
She  and  Aileen  put  it  off,  and  put  it  off.  Now  she  says 
they  mean  to  spend  May  in  Switzerland — may  perhaps 

301 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

be  away  the  whole  summer!  I  had  counted  on  them  for 
Easter.  I  am  dependent  on  Blanche  for  hostess.  It  is 
really  too  bad  of  her.  Everything  has  broken  down,  and 
William  and  I  (he  named  his  youngest  son)  are  going  to 
the  Uredales'  for  a  fortnight." 

Lord  Uredale,  his  eldest  son,  a  sportsman  and  farmer, 
troubled  by  none  of  his  father's  originalities,  reigned  over 
the  second  family  "place,"  in  Herefordshire,  beside  the 
Wye. 

"Has  Aileen  any  love  affairs  yet?"  said  the  Duchess, 
abruptly,  raising  her  face  to  his. 

Lord  Lackington  looked  surprised. 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  However,  I  dare  say  they 
wouldn't  tell  me.  I'm  a  sieve,  I  know.  Have  you 
heard  of  any?  Tell  me."  He  stooped  to  her  with  roguish 
eagerness.     "I  like  to  steal  a  march  on  Blanche." 

So  he  knew  nothing — while  half  their  world  was  talk- 
ing! It  was  very  characteristic,  however.  Except  for 
his  own  hobbies,  artistic,  medical,  or  military.  Lord 
Lackington  had  walked  through  life  as  a  Johnny  Head- 
in-Air,  from  his  youth  till  now.  His  children  had  not 
trusted  him  with  their  secrets,  and  he  had  never  dis- 
covered them  for  himself. 

"Is  there  any  likeness  between  Julie  and  Aileen?" 
whispered  the  Duchess. 

Lord  Lackington  started.  Both  turned  their  eyes 
towards  Julie,  as  she  stood  some  ten  yards  away  from 
them,  in  front  of  a  refined  and  m^^sterious  profile  of  the 
cinque -cento  —  some  lady,  perhaps,  of  the  d'Este  or 
Sforza  families,  attributed  to  Ambrogio  da  Predis.  In 
her  soft,  black  dress,  delicately  folded  and  draped  to  hide 
her  excessive  thinness,  her  small  toque   fitting   closely 

302 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

over  her  wealth  of  hair,  her  only  ornaments  a  long  and 
slender  cham  set  with  uncut  jewels  which  Lord  Lacking- 
ton  had  brought  her  the  day  before,  and  a  bunch  of 
violets  which  the  Duchess  had  just  sHpped  into  her  belt, 
she  was  as  rare  and  delicate  as  the  picture.  But  she 
turned  her  face  towards  them,  and  Lord  Lackington 
made  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"No!  Good  Heavens,  no!  Aileen  was  a  dancing- 
sprite  when  I  saw  her  last,  and  this  poor  girl! — Duch- 
ess, why  does  she  look  like  that?     So  sad,  so  bloodless!" 

He  turned  upon  her  impetuously,  his  face  frowning 
and  disturbed. 

The  Duchess  sighed. 

"You  and  I  have  just  got  to  do  all  we  can  for  her," 
she  said,  relieved  to  see  that  Julie  had  wandered  farther 
away,  as  though  it  pleased  her  to  be  left  to  herself. 

"But  I  would  do  anything — everything!"  cried  Lord 
Lackington.  "Of  course,  none  of  us  can  undo  the  past. 
But  I  offered  yesterday  to  make  full  provision  for  her. 
She  has  refused.  She  has  the  most  Quixotic  notions, 
poor  child!" 

"No,  let  her  earn  her  own  living  yet  awhile.  It  will 
do  her  good.  But — shall  I  tell  you  secrets?"  The  Duch- 
ess looked  at  him,  knitting  her  small  brows. 

"Tell  me  what  I  ought  to  know — no  more,"  he  said, 
gravely,  with  a  dignity  contrasting  oddly  with  his  school- 
boy curiosity  in  the  matter  of  little  Aileen's  lover. 

The  Duchess  hesitated.  Just  in  front  of  her  was  a 
picture  of  the  Venetian  school  representing  St.  George, 
Princess  Saba,  and  the  dragon.  The  princess,  a  long  and 
slender  victim,  with  bowed  head  and  fettered  hands,  re- 
minded her  of  Julie.     The  dragon — perfidious,  encroach- 

303 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ing  wretch ! — he  was  easy  enough  of  interpretation.  But 
from  the  blue  distance,  thank  Heaven!  spurs  the  cham- 
pion. Oh,  ye  heavenly  powers,  give  him  wings  and 
strength!     "St.  George — St.  George  to  the  rescue!" 

"Well,"  she  said,  slowly,  "I  can  tell  you  of  some  one 
who  is  very  devoted  to  Julie — some  one  worthy  of  her. 
Come  with  me." 

And  she  took  him  away  into  the  next  room,  still  talk- 
ing in  his  ear. 

When  they  returned.  Lord  Lackington  was  radiant. 
With  a  new  eagerness  he  looked  for  Julie's  distant  figure 
amid  the  groups  scattered  about  the  central  room.  The 
Duchess  had  sworn  him  to  secrecy,  indeed;  and  he  meant 
to  be  discretion  itself.  But — Jacob  Delafield!  Yes,  that, 
indeed,  would  be  a  solution.  His  pride  was  acutely 
pleased;  his  affection  —  of  which  he  already  began  to 
feel  no  small  store  for  this  charming  woman  of  his  own 
blood,  this  poor  granddaughter  de  la  main  gauche — was 
strengthened  and  stimulated.  She  was  sad  now  and  out 
of  spirits,  poor  thing,  because,  no  doubt,  of  this  horrid 
business  with  Lady  Henry,  to  whom,  by-the-way,  he  had 
written  his  mind.  But  time  would  see  to  that — time — 
gently  and  discreetly  assisted  by  himself  and  the  Duchess. 
It  was  impossible  that  she  should  finally  hold  out  against 
such  a  good  fellow — impossible,  and  most  unreasonable. 
No.  Rose's  daughter  would  be  brought  back  safely  to  her 
mother's  world  and  class,  and  poor  Rose's  tragedy  would 
at  last  work  itself  out  for  good.  How  strange,  romantic, 
and  providential ! 

In  such  a  mood  did  he  now  devote  himself  to  Julie. 
He  chattered   about  the  pictures;   he   gossiped   about 

304 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

their  owners ;  he  excused  himself  for  the  absence  of  ' '  that 
gad-about  Blanche";  he  made  her  promise  him  a  Whit- 
suntide visit  instead,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "You 
shall  have  her  room";  he  paid  her  the  most  handsome 
and  gallant  attentions,  natural  to  the  man  of  fashion  par 
excellence,  mingled  with  something  intimate,  brusque, 
capricious,  which  marked  her  his  own,  and  of  the  family. 
Seventy-five! — with  that  step,  that  carriage  of  the  shoul- 
ders, that  vivacity!     Ridiculous! 

And  Julie  could  not  but  respond. 

Something  stole  into  her  heart  that  had  never  yet 
lodged  there.  She  must  love  the  old  man  —  she  did. 
When  he  left  her  for  the  Duchess  her  eyes  followed  him 
— her  dark-rimmed,  wistful  eyes. 

"I  must  be  off,"  said  Lord  Lackington,  presently, 
buttoning  up  his  coat.  "This,  ladies,  has  been  dalliance. 
I  now  go  to  my  duties.  Read  me  in  the  Times  to-mor- 
row. I  shall  make  a  rattling  speech.  You  see,  I  shall 
rub  it  in." 

"Montresor?"  said  the  Duchess. 

Lord  Lackington  nodded.     That  afternoon  he  pro- 
posed to  strew  the  floor  of  the  House  of  Lords  with  the 
debris  of  Montresor's  farcical  reforms. 
.     Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  up. 

"Duchess,  look  round  you,  at  those  two  in  the  door- 
way. Isn't  it — by  George,  it  is! — Chudleigh  and  his 
boy!" 

"Yes — yes,  it  is,"  said  the  Duchess,  in  some  excite- 
ment. "Don't  recognize  them.  Don't  speak  to  him. 
Jacob  implored  me  not." 

And  she  hurried  her  companions  along  till  they  were 
well  out  of  the  track  of  the  new-comers;  then  on  the 

30s 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

threshold  of  another  room  she  paused,  and,  touching 
JuHe  on  the  arm,  said,  in  a  whisper: 

"  Now  look  back.  That's  Jacob's  Duke,  and  his  poor, 
poor  boy!" 

Julie  threw  a  hurried  glance  towards  the  two  figures; 
but  that  glance  impressed  forever  upon  her  memor}^  a 
most  tragic  sight. 

A  man  of  middle  height,  sallow,  and  careworn,  with 
jet-black  hair  and  beard,  supported  a  sickly  lad,  appar- 
ently about  seventeen,  who  clung  to  his  arm  and  coughed 
at  intervals.  The  father  moved  as  though  in  a  dream. 
He  looked  at  the  pictures  with  unseeing,  lustreless  eyes, 
except  when  the  boy  asked  him  a  question.  Then  he 
would  smile,  stoop  his  head  and  answer,  only  to  resume 
again  immediately  his  melancholy  passivity.  The  boy, 
meanwhile,  his  lips  gently  parted  over  his  white  teeth, 
his  blue  eyes  wide  open  and  intent  upon  the  pictures,  his 
emaciated  cheeks  deeply  flushed,  wore  an  aspect  of  pa- 
tient suffering,  of  docile  dependence,  peculiarly  touching. 

It  was  evident  the  father  and  son  thought  of  none  but 
each  other.  From  time  to  time  the  man  would  make 
the  boy  rest  on  one  of  the  seats  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  the  boy  would  look  up  and  chatter  to  his  com- 
panion standing  before  him.  Then  again  they  would  re- 
sume their  walk,  the  boy  leaning  on  his  father.  Clearly 
the  poor  lad  was  marked  for  death;  clearly,  also,  he  was 
the  desire  of  his  father's  heart. 

"The  possessor,  and  the  heir,  of  perhaps  the  finest 
houses  and  the  most  magnificent  estates  in  England," 
said  Lord  Lackington,  with  a  shrug  of  pity.  "And 
Chudleigh  would  gladly  give  them  all  to  keep  that  boy 
alive." 

306 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Julie  turned  away.  Strange  thoughts  had  been  pass- 
ing and  repassing  through  her  brain. 

Then,  with  angry  loathing,  she  flung  her  thoughts 
from  her.  What  did  the  Chudleigh  inheritance  matter 
to  her?  That  night  she  said  good-bye  to  the  man  she 
loved.  These  three  miserable,  burning  weeks  were  done. 
Her  heart,  her  life,  would  go  with  Wark worth  to  Africa 
and  the  desert.  If  at  the  beginning  of  this  period  of 
passion — so  short  in  prospect,  and,  to  look  back  upon, 
an  eternity — she  had  ever  supposed  that  power  or  wealth 
could  make  her  amends  for  the  loss  of  her  lover,  she  was 
in  no  mood  to  calculate  such  compensations  to-day. 
Parting  was  too  near,  the  anguish  in  her  veins  too  sharp. 

"Jacob  takes  them  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  said  the 
Duchess  to  Lord  Lackington.  "The  Duke  has  heard  of 
some  new  doctor." 

An  hour  or  two  later,  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,  in  the  smoking- 
room  of  his  club,  took  out  a  letter  which  he  had  that 
morning  received  from  Lady  Henry  Delafield  and  gave 
it  a  second  reading. 

"So  I  hear  that  mademoiselle's  social  prospects  are  not, 
after  all,  so  triumphant  as  both  she  and  I  imagined.  I 
gave  the  world  credit  for  more  fools  than  it  seems  actually 
to  possess;  and  she — well,  I  own  I  am  a  little  puzzled. 
Has  she  taken  leave  of  her  senses?  I  am  told  that  she 
is  constantly  seen  with  this  man ;  that  in  spite  of  all  denials 
there  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  engagement  to  the  Moffatt 
girl;  and  that  en  somme  she  has  done  herself  no  good  by  the 
whole  affair.  But,  after  all,  poor  soul,  she  is  disinterested. 
She  stands  to  gain  nothing,  as  I  understand ;  and  she  risks 
a  good  deal.  From  this  comfortable  distance,  I  really  find 
something  touching  in  her  behavior, 

307 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"She  gives  her  first  'Wednesday,'  I  understand,  to-mor- 
row. 'Mademoiselle  Le  Breton  at  home!'  I  confess  I  am 
curious.  By  all  means  go,  and  send  me  a  full  report.  Mr. 
Montresor  and  his  wife  will  certainly  be  there.  He  and  I 
have  been  corresponding,  of  course.  He  wishes  to  persuade 
me  that  he  feels  himself  in  some  way  responsible  for 
mademoiselle's  position,  and  for  my  dismissal  of  her;  that 
I  ought  to  allow  him  in  consequence  full  freedom  of  action. 
I  cannot  see  matters  in  the  same  light.  But,  as  I  tell  him, 
the  change  will  be  all  to  his  advantage.  He  exchanges  a 
fractious  old  woman,  always  ready  to  tell  him  unpleasant 
truths,  for  one  who  has  made  flattery  her  metier.  If  he 
wants  quantity  she  will  give  it  him.  Quality  he  can  dispense 
with — as  I  have  seen  for  some  time  past. 

"Lord  Lackington  has  written  me  an  impertinent  letter. 
It  seems  she  has  revealed  herself,  and  il  s'en  prend  a  mot, 
because  I  kept  the  secret  from  him,  and  because  I  have 
now  dared  to  dismiss  his  granddaughter.  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  a  reply  which  amuses  me.  He  is  to  cast  off  his 
belongings  as  he  pleases;  but  when  a  lady  of  the  Chantrey 
blood — no  matter  how  she  came  by  it — condescends  to 
enter  a  paid  employment,  legitimate  or  illegitimate,  she 
must  be  treated  en  reine,  or  Lord  L.  will  know  the  reason 
why.  '  Here  is  one  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  you,'  he  says  to  her  at  sixteen.  Thir- 
teen years  later  I  take  her  in,  respect  his  wishes,  and  keep 
the  secret.  She  misbehaves  herself,  and  I  dismiss  her. 
Where  is  the  grievance?  He  himself  made  her  a  lectrice, 
and  now  complains  that  she  is  expected  to  do  her  duty  in 
that  line  of  life.  He  himself  banished  her  from  the  family, 
and  now  grumbles  that  I  did  not  at  once  foist  her  upon  him. 
He  would  like  to  escape  the  odium  of  his  former  action  by 
blaming  me;  but  I  am  not  meek,  and  I  shall  make  him  re- 
gret his  letter. 

"As  for  Jacob  Delafield,  don't  trouble  yourself  to  write 

308 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

me  any  further  news  of  him.  He  has  insulted  me  lately  in  a 
way  I  shall  not  soon  forgive — nothing  to  do,  however,  with 
the  lady  who  says  she  refused  him.  Whether  her  report 
be  veracious  or  no  matters  nothing  to  me,  any  more  than 
his  chances  of  succeeding  to  the  Captain's  place.  He  is  one 
of  the  ingenious  fools  who  despise  the  old  ways  of  ruining 
themselves,  and  in  the  end  achieve  it  as  well  as  the  com- 
moner sort.  He  owes  me  a  good  deal,  and  at  one  time  it 
pleased  me  to  imagine  that  he  was  capable  both  of  aflfec- 
tion  and  gratitude.  That  is  the  worst  of  being  a  woman ; 
we  pass  from  one  illusion  to  another;  love  is  only  the  be- 
ginning; there  are  a  dozen  to  come  after. 

"You  will  scold  me  for  a  bitter  tongue.  Well,  my  dear 
Wilfrid,  I  am  not  gay  here.  There  are  too  many  women, 
too  many  church  services,  and  I  see  too  much  of  my  doc- 
tor. I  pine  for  London,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  have 
been  driven  out  of  it  by  an  intrigante. 

"Write  to  me,  my  dear  Wilfrid.  I  am  not  quite  so  bad 
as  I  paint  myself;  say  to  yourself  she  has  arthritis,  she 
is  sixty-five,  and  her  new  companion  reads  aloud  with  a 
twang;  then  you  will  only  wonder  at  my  moderation." 

Sir  Wilfrid  returned  the  letter  to  his  pocket.  That 
day,  at  luncheon  with  Lady  Hubert,  he  had  had  the 
curiosity  to  question  Susan  Delafield,  Jacob's  fair-haired 
sister,  as  to  the  reasons  for  her  brother's  quarrel  with 
Lady  Henry. 

It  appeared  that  being  now  in  receipt  of  what  seemed 
to  himself,  at  any  rate,  a  large  salary  as  his  cousin's 
agent,  he  had  thought  it  his  duty  to  save  up  and  repay 
the  sums  which  Lady  Henry  had  formerly  spent  upon 
his  education. 

His  letter  enclosing  the  money  had  reached  that  lady 
during  the  first  week  of  her  stay  at  Torquay.     It  was, 

309 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

no  doubt,  couched  in  terms  less  cordial  or  more  formal 
than  would  have  been  the  case  before  Miss  Le  Breton's 
expulsion.  "Not  that  he  defends  her  altogether,"  said 
Susan  Delafield,  who  was  herself  inclined  to  side  with 
Lady  Henry;  "but  as  Lady  Henry  has  refused  to  see 
him  since,  it  was  not  much  good  being  friendly,  was  it?" 

Anyway,  the  letter  and  its  enclosure  had  completed  a 
breach  already  begun.  Lady  Henry  had  taken  furious 
offence;  the  check  had  been  insultingly  returned,  and 
had  now  gone  to  swell  the  finances  of  a  London  hospital. 

Sir  Wilfrid  was  just  reflecting  that  Jacob's  honesty 
had  better  have  waited  for  a  more  propitious  season, 
when,  looking  up,  he  saw  the  War  Minister  beside  him, 
in  the  act  of  searching  for  a  newspaper. 

"Released?"  said  Bury,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  thank  Heaven.  Lackington  is,  I  believe,  still 
pounding  at  me  in  the  House  of  Lords.  But  that 
amuses  him  and  doesn't  hurt  me." 

"You'll  carry  your  resolutions?" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,  with  no  trouble  at  all,"  said  the  Min- 
ister, almost  with  sulkiness,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a 
chair  and  looked  with  distaste  at  the  newspaper  he  had 
taken  up. 

Sir  Wilfrid  surveyed  him. 

"We  meet  to-night?"  he  said,  presently. 

"You  mean  in  Heribert  Street?  I  suppose  so,"  said 
Montresor,  without  cordiality. 

"I  have  just  got  a  letter  from  her  ladyship." 

"Well,  I  hope  it  is  more  agreeable  than  those  she 
writes  to  me.     A  more  unreasonable  old  woman — " 

The  tired  Minister  took  up  Punch,  looked  at  a  page, 
and  flung  it  down  again.     Then  he  said: 

310 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know.  Lady  Henry  gives  me  leave,  which 
makes  me  feel  myself  a  kind  of  spy." 

"Oh,  never  mind.  Come  along.  Mademoiselle  Julie 
will  want  all  our  support.  I  don't  hear  her  as  kindly 
spoken  of  just  now  as  I  should  wish." 

"No.  Lady  Henry  has  more  personal  hold  than  we 
thought." 

' '  And  Mademoiselle  Julie  less  tact.  Why,  in  the  name 
of  goodness,  does  she  go  and  get  herself  talked  about 
with  the  particular  man  who  is  engaged  to  her  little 
cousin?  You  know,  by-the-way,  that  the  story  of  her 
parentage  is  leaking  out  fast?  Most  people  seem  to 
know  somicthing  about  it." 

"Well,  that  was  bound  to  come.  Will  it  do  her  good 
or  harm?" 

"Harm,  for  the  present.  A  few  people  are  strait- 
laced,  and  a  good  many  feel  they  have  been  taken  in. 
But,  anyway,  this  flirtation  is  a  mistake." 

"  Nobody  really  knows  whether  the  man  is  engaged  to 
the  Moffatt  girl  or  no.  The  guardians  have  forbidden 
it." 

"At  any  rate,  everybody  is  kind  enough  to  say  so.  It's 
a  blunder  on  Mademoiselle  Julie's  part.  As  to  the  man 
himself,  of  course,  there  is  nothing  to  say.  He  is  a  very 
clever  fellow."  Montresor  looked  at  his  companion  with 
a  sudden  stiffness,  as  though  defying  contradiction.  "  He 
will  do  this  piece  of  work  that  we  have  given  him  to  do 
extremely  well." 

"The  Mokembe  mission?" 

Montresor  nodded. 

"  He  had  very  considerable  claims,  and  was  appointed 
311 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

entirely  on  his  military  record.  All  the  tales  as  to  Mad- 
emoiselle's influence — with  me,  for  instance — that  Lady 
Henry  has  been  putting  into  circulation  are  either  ab- 
surd fiction  or  have  only  the  very  smallest  foundation 
in  fact." 

Sir  Wilfrid  smiled  amicably  and  diverted  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Wark worth  starts  at  once?" 

"He  goes  to  Paris  to-morrow.  I  recommended  him 
to  see  Pattison,  the  Military  Secretary  there,  who  was  in 
the  expedition  of  five  years  back." 

"This  hasn't  gone  as  well  as  it  ought,"  said  Dr.  Mer- 
edith, in  the  ear  of  the  Duchess. 

They  were  standing  inside  the  door  of  Julie's  little 
drawing  -  room.  The  Duchess,  in  a  dazzling  frock  of 
white  and  silver,  which  placed  Clarisse  among  the  di- 
vinities of  her  craft,  looked  round  her  with  a  look  of 
worry. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  tiresome  creatures? 
Why  is  everybody  going  so  early?  And  there  are  not 
half  the  people  here  who  ought  to  be  here." 

Meredith  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  saw  you  at  Chatton  House  the  other  night,"  he 
said,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Well?"  said  the  Duchess,  sharply. 

"It  seemed  to  me  there  was  something  of  a  demon- 
stration." 

"Against  Julie?  Let  them  try  it!"  said  the  little  lady, 
with  evasive  defiance.  "We  shall  be  too  strong  for 
them." 

"  Lady  Henry  is  putting  her  back  into  it.  I  confess  I 
312 


Lady    Roses    Daughter 

never  thought  she  would  be  either  so  venomous  or  so 
successful." 

"Julie  will  come  out  all  right." 

"She  would — triumphantly — if — " 

The  Duchess  glanced  at  him  uneasily. 

"I  believe  you  are  overworking  her.  She  looks  skin 
and  bone." 

Dr.  Meredith  shook  his  head. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  holding  her  back.  But 
it  seems  she  wants  to  earn  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"That's  so  absurd,"  cried  the  Duchess,  "when  there 
are  people  only  pining  to  give  her  some  of  theirs." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  journalist,  brusquely.  "She  is 
quite  right  there.  Oh,  it  would  be  all  right  if  she  were 
herself.  She  would  make  short  work  of  Lady  Henry. 
But,  Mademoiselle  Julie  " — for  she  glided  past  them,  and 
he  raised  his  voice — "sit  down  and  rest  yourself.  Don't 
take  so  much  trouble." 

She  flung  them  a  smile. 

"Lord  Lackington  is  going,"  and  she  hurried  on. 

Lord  Lackington  was  standing  in  a  group  which  con- 
tained Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  and  Mr.  Montresor. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  good-bye,"  he  said,  as  she  came  up 
to  him.     "I  must  go.     I'm  nearly  asleep." 

"Tired  with  abusing  me?"  said  Montresor,  noncha- 
lantly, turning  round  upon  him. 

"No,  only  with  trying  to  make  head  or  tail  of  you," 
said  Lackington,  gayly.     Then  he  stooped  over  Julie. 

"Take  care  of  yourself.  Come  back  rosier — and 
fatter." 

"I  m  perfectly  well.     Let  me  come  with  you." 

"No,  don't  trouble  yourself."     For  she  had  followed 

313 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

him  into  the  hail  and  found  his  coat  for  him.  All  the 
arrangements  for  her  little  "evening"  had  been  of  the 
simplest.  That  had  been  a  point  of  pride  with  her. 
Madame  Bornier  and  Therese  dispensing  tea  and  coffee 
in  the  dining-room,  one  hired  parlor-maid,  and  she  her- 
self active  and  busy  everywhere.  Certain  French  mod- 
els were  in  her  head,  and  memories  of  her  mother's  bare 
little  salon  in  Bruges,  with  its  good  talk,  and  its  thin- 
nest of  thin  refreshments — a  few  cups  of  weak  tea,  or 
glasses  of  eau  sucree,  with  a  plate  of  patisserie. 

The  hired  parlor-maid  was  whistling  for  a  cab  in  the 
service  of  some  other  departing  guest;  so  Julie  herself 
put  Lord  Lackington  into  his  coat,  much  to  his  discom- 
fort. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  come,"  she  said  to 
him,  with  soft  reproach.  "  Why  did  you  have  that  faint- 
ing fit  before  dinner?" 

"I  say!     Who's  been  telling  tales?" 

"Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  met  your  son,  Mr.  Chantrey,  at 
dinner." 

"Bill  can  never  hold  his  tongue.  Oh,  it  was  nothing; 
not  with  the  proper  treatment,  mind  you.  Of  course, 
if  the  allopaths  were  to  get  their  knives  into  me — but, 
thank  God!  I'm  out  of  that  ga/^r^.  Well,  in  a  fortnight, 
isn't  it?  We  shall  both  be  in  town  again.  I  don't  like 
saying  good-bye." 

And  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"It  all  seems  so  strange  to  me  still — so  strange!"  he 
murmured. 

"Next  week  I  shall  see  mamma's  grave,"  said  Julie, 
under  her  breath.  "Shall  I  put  some  flowers  there  for 
you?" 

314 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

The  fine  blue  eyes  above  her  wavered.  He  bent  to 
her. 

"Yes.  And  write  to  me.  Come  back  soon.  Oh, 
you'll  see.  Things  will  all  come  right,  perfectly  right, 
in  spite  of  Lady  Henry." 

Confidence,  encouragement,  a  charming  raillery,  an  en- 
thusiastic tenderness — all  these  beamed  upon  her  from 
the  old  man's  tone  and  gesture.  She  was  puzzled.  But 
with  another  pressure  of  the  hand  he  was  gone.  She 
stood  looking  after  him.  And  as  the  carriage  drove 
away,  the  sound  of  the  wheels  hurt  her.  It  was  the 
withdrawal  of  something  protecting  —  something  more 
her  own,  when  all  was  said,  than  anything  else  which 
remained  to  her. 

As  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  Dr.  Meredith 
intercepted  her. 

"You  want  me  to  send  you  some  work  to  take 
abroad?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  shall  do  nothing 
of  the  kind." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  ought  to  have  a  complete  holiday." 

"Very  well.  Then  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  pay  my  way," 
she  said,  with  a  tired  smile. 

"Remember  the  doctor's  bills  if  you  fall  ill." 

"111!  I  am  never  ill,"  she  said,  with  scorn.  Then  she 
looked  round  the  room  deHberately,  and  her  gaze  re- 
turned to  her  companion.  "I  am  not  likely  to  be 
fatigued  with  society,  am  I?"  she  added,  in  a  voice  that 
did  not  attempt  to  disguise  the  bitterness  within. 

"My  dear  lady,  you  are  hardly  installed." 

"  I  have  been  here  a  month — the  critical  month.  Now 
was  the  moment  to  stand  by  me,  or  throw  me  over — 

II.-6  315 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

n'est-ce  pas?  This  is  my  first  party,  my  house-warm- 
ing. I  gave  a  fortnight's  notice;  I  asked  about  sixty 
people,  whom  I  knew  well.  Some  did  not  answer  at  all. 
Of  the  rest,  half  declined — rather  curtly,  in  many  in- 
stances. And  of  those  who  accepted,  not  all  are  here. 
And,  oh,  how  it  dragged!" 

Meredith  looked  at  her  rather  guiltily,  not  knowing 
what  to  say.  It  was  true  the  evening  had  dragged.  In 
both  their  minds  there  rose  the  memory  of  Lady  Henry's 
"Wednesdays,"  the  beautiful  rooms,  the  varied  and 
brilliant  company,  the  power  and  consideration  which 
had  attended  Lady  Henry's  companion. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Julie,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  "I 
had  been  thinking  of  the  French  mattresses  de  salon,  like  a 
fool;  of  Mademoiselle  de  I'Espinasse — or  Madame  Mohl 
— imagining  that  people  would  come  to  me  for  a  cup  of 
tea  and  an  agreeable  hour.  But  in  England,  it  seems, 
people  must  be  paid  to  talk.  Talk  is  a  business  affair 
— you  give  it  for  a  consideration." 

"No,  no!  You'll  build  it  up,"  said  Meredith.  In  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  said  to  himself  that  she  had  not  been 
herself  that  night.  Her  wonderful  social  instincts,  her 
memory,  her  adroitness,  had  somehow  failed  her.  And 
from  a  hostess  strained,  conscious,  and  only  artificially 
gay,  the  little  gathering  had  taken  its  note. 

"You  have  the  old  guard,  anyway,"  added  the  jour- 
nalist, with  a  smile,  as  he  looked  round  the  room.  The 
Duchess,  Delafield,  Montresor  and  his  wife.  General 
M'Gill,  and  three  or  four  other  old  habitues  of  the  Bruton 
Street  evenings  were  scattered  about  the  little  draw- 
ing-room. General  Fergus,  too,  was  there — had  arrived 
early,  and  was  staying  late.     His   frank  soldier's   face, 

316 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  accent,  cheerful,  homely,  careless,  with  which  he 
threw  off  talk  full  of  marrow,  talk  only  possible — for  all 
its  simplicity — to  a  man  whose  life  had  been  already 
closely  mingled  with  the  fortunes  of  his  country,  had 
done  something  to  bind  Julie's  poor  little  party  together. 
Her  eye  rested  on  him  with  gratitude.  Then  she  replied 
to  Meredith. 

"Mr.  Montresor  will  scarcely  come  again." 

" What  do  you  mean ?  Ungrateful  lady!  Montresor! 
who  has  already  sacrificed  Lady  Henry  and  the  habits  of 
thirty  years  to  your  beaux  yeux !" 

"That  is  what  he  will  never  forgive  me,"  said  Julie, 
sadly.  "He  has  satisfied  his  pride,  and  I — have  lost  a 
friend." 

"Pessimist!  Mrs.  Montresor  seemed  to  me  most 
friendly." 

Julie  laughed. 

"She,  of  course,  is  enchanted.  Her  husband  has  never 
been  her  own  till  now.  She  married  him,  subject  to  Lady 
Henry's  rights.  But  all  that  she  will  soon  forget — and 
my  existence  with  it." 

"  I  won't  argue.  It  only  makes  you  more  stubborn," 
said  Meredith.     "Ah,  still  they  come!" 

For  the  door  opened  to  admit  the  tall  figure  of  Major 
Warkworth. 

"Am  I  very  late?"  he  said,  with  a  surprised  look  as 
he  glanced  at  the  thinly  scattered  room.  Juhe  greeted 
him,  and  he  excused  himself  on  the  ground  of  a  dinner 
which  had  begun  just  an  hour  late,  owing  to  the  tardi- 
ness of  a  cabinet  minister. 

Meredith  observed  the  young  man  with  some  atten- 
tion, from  the  dark  comer  in  which  Julie  had  left  him. 

317 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  gossip  of  the  moment  had  reached  him  also,  but 
he  had  not  paid  much  heed  to  it.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
no  one  knew  anything  first-hand  of  the  Moffatt  affair. 
And  for  himself,  he  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  Julie 
Le  Breton  was  any  man's  dupe. 

She  must  marry,  poor  thing!  Of  course  she  must 
marry.  Since  it  had  been  plain  to  him  that  she  would 
never  listen  to  his  own  suit,  this  great-hearted  and  clear- 
brained  man  had  done  his  best  to  stifle  in  himself  all 
small  or  grasping  impulses.  But  this  fellow — with  his 
inferior  temper  and  morale — alack!  why  are  the  clever 
women  such  fools? 

If  only  she  had  confided  in  him — her  old  and  tried 
friend — he  thought  he  could  have  put  things  before  her, 
so  as  to  influence  without  offending  her.  But  he  suffered 
— had  always  suffered — from  the  jealous  reserve  which 
underlay  her  charm,  her  inborn  tendency  to  secretiveness 
and  intrigue. 

Now,  as  he  watched  her  few  words  with  Warkworth, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  the  signs  of  some  hidden 
relation.  How  flushed  she  was  suddenly,  and  her  eyes 
so  bright! 

He  was  not  allowed  much  time  or  scope,  however,  for 
observation.  Warkworth  took  a  turn  round  the  room, 
chatted  a  little  with  this  person  and  that,  then,  on  the 
plea  that  he  was  off  to  Paris  early  on  the  following 
morning,  approached  his  hostess  again  to  take  his  leave. 

"Ah,  yes,  you  start  to-morrow,"  said  Montresor,  ris- 
ing.    "Well,  good  luck  to  you — good  luck  to  you." 

General  Fergus,  too,  advanced.  The  whole  room,  in- 
deed, awoke  to  the  situation,  and  all  the  remaining 
guests  grouped   themselves  round   the   young   soldier, 

318 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Even  the  Duchess  was  thawed  a  httle  by  this  actual  mo- 
ment of  departure.  After  all,  the  man  was  going  on  his 
country's  service. 

"  No  child's  play,  this  mission,  I  can  assure  you,"  Gen- 
eral M'Gill  had  said  to  her.  "Warkworth  will  want  all 
the  powers  he  has — of  mind  or  body." 

The  slim,  young  fellow,  so  boyishly  elegant  in  his  well- 
cut  evening-dress,  received  the  ovation  offered  to  him 
with  an  evident  pleasure  which  tried  to  hide  itself  in  the 
usual  English  ways.  He  had  been  very  pale  when  he 
came  in.  But  his  cheek  reddened  as  Montresor  grasped 
him  by  the  hand,  as  the  two  generals  bade  him  a  cordial 
godspeed,  as  Sir  Wilfrid  gave  him  a  jesting  message  for 
the  British  representative  in  Egypt,  and  as  the  ladies 
present  accorded  him  those  flattering  and  admiring  looks 
that  woman  keeps  for  valor. 

Julie  counted  for  little  in  these  farewells.  She  stood 
apart  and  rather  silent.  "They  have  had  their  good- 
bye," thought  the  Duchess,  with  a  thrill  she  could  not 
help. 

"Three  days  in  Paris?"  said  Sir  Wilfrid.  "A  fort- 
night to  Denga — and  then  how  long  before  you  start  for 
the  interior?" 

"Oh,  three  weeks  for  collecting  porters  and  supplies. 
They're  drilling  the  escort  already.  We  should  be  off 
by  the  middle  of  May." 

"A  bad  month,"  said  General  Fergus,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Unfortunately,  affairs  won't  wait.  But  I  am  already 
stiff  with  quinine,"  laughed  Warkworth — "or  I  shall  be 
by  the  time  I  get  to  Denga.     Good-bye — good-bye." 

And  in  another  moment  he  was  gone.     Miss  Le  Bre- 

319 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ton  had  given  him  her  hand  and  wished  him  "  Bon  voy- 
age," hke  everybody  else. 

The  party  broke  up.  The  Duchess  kissed  her  Julie 
with  peculiar  tenderness;  Delafield  pressed  her  hand,  and 
his  deep,  kind  eyes  gave  her  a  lingering  look,  of  which, 
however,  she  was  quite  unconscious;  Meredith  renewed 
his  half-irritable,  half-affectionate  counsels  of  rest  and 
recreation;  Mrs.  Montresor  was  conventionally  effusive; 
Montresor  alone  bade  the  mistress  of  the  house  a  some- 
what cold  and  perfunctory  farewell.  Even  Sir  Wilfrid 
was  a  little  touched,  he  knew  not  why;  he  vowed  to  him- 
self that  his  report  to  Lady  Henry  on  the  morrow  should 
contain  no  food  for  malice,  and  inwardly  he  forgave 
Mademoiselle  Julie  the  old  romancings. 


XVIII 

IT  v/as  twenty  minutes  since  the  last  carriage  had 
driven  away.  Julie  was  still  waiting  in  the  little  hall, 
pacing  its  squares  of  black-and-white  marble,  slowly, 
backward  and  forward. 

There  was  a  low  knock  on  the  door. 

She  opened  it.  Warkworth  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
and  the  high  moon  behind  him  threw  a  bright  ray  into 
the  dim  hall,  where  all  but  one  faint  light  had  been  ex- 
tinguished.    She  pointed  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  will  come  directly.  Let  me  just  go  and  ask  Ldonie 
to  sit  up." 

Warkworth  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Julie  opened 
the  dining-room  door.  Madame  Bornier  was  engaged  in 
washing  and  putting  away  the  china  and  glass  which 
had  been  used  for  Julie's  modest  refreshments. 

"  Leonie,  you  won't  go  to  bed?  Major  Warkworth  is 
here." 

Madame  Bornier  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"How  long  will  he  be?" 

"Perhaps  half  an  hour." 

"It  is  already  past  midnight." 

"Leonie,  he  goes  to-morrow." 

"Tres  bien.  Mais — sais-tu,  ma  chere,  ce  n'est  pas 
convenable,  ce  que  tu  fais  la!" 

And  the  older  woman,  straightening  herself,  looked 

5^' I 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

her  foster-sister  full  in  the  face.  A  kind  of  watch-dog 
anxiety,  a  sulky,  protesting  affection  breathed  from  her 
rugged  features. 

Julie  went  up  to  her,  not  angrily,  but  rather  with  a 
pleading  humility. 

The  two  women  held  a  rapid  colloquy  in  low  tones — 
Madame  Bornier  remonstrating,  Julie  softly  getting  her 
way. 

Then  Madame  Bornier  returned  to  her  work,  and  Julie 
went  to  the  drawing-room. 

Warkworth  sprang  up  as  she  entered.  Both  paused 
and  wavered.  Then  he  went  up  to  her,  and  roughly, 
irresistibly,  drew  her  into  his  arms.  She  held  back  a 
moment,  but  finally  yielded,  and  clasping  her  hands 
round  his  neck  she  buried  her  face  on  his  breast. 

They  stood  so  for  some  minutes,  absolutely  silent, 
save  for  her  hurried  breathing,  his  head  bowed  upon 
hers. 

"Julie,  how  can  we  say  good-bye?"  he  whispered,  at 
last. 

She  disengaged  herself,  and,  seeing  his  face,  she  tried 
for  composure. 

"Come  and  sit  down." 

She  led  him  to  the  window,  which  he  had  thrown  open 
as  he  entered  the  room,  and  they  sat  beside  it,  hand  in 
hand.  A  mild  April  night  shone  outside.  Gusts  of 
moist  air  floated  in  upon  them.  There  were  dim  lights 
and  shadows  in  the  garden  and  on  the  shuttered  fagade 
of  the  great  house. 

"Is  it  forever?"  said  Julie,  in  a  low,  stifled  voice. 
' '  Good-bye — forever  ? ' ' 

She  felt  his  hand  tremble,  but  she  did  not  look  at 
322 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

him.  She  seemed  to  be  reciting  words  long  since  spoken 
in  the  mind. 

"You  will  be  away — perhaps  a  year?  Then  you  go 
back  to  India,  and  then — " 

She  paused. 

Warkworth  was  physically  conscious,  as  it  were,  of  a 
letter  he  carried  in  his  coat-pocket — a  letter  from  Lady 
Blanche  Moffatt  which  had  reached  him  that  morning, 
the  letter  of  a  grande  dame,  reduced  to  undignified  remon- 
strance by  sheer  maternal  terror — terror  for  the  health 
and  life  of  a  child  as  fragile  and  ethereal  as  a  wild  rose 
in  May.  Reports  had  reached  her;  but  no — they  could 
not  be  true  !  She  bade  him  be  thankful  that  not  a 
breath  of  suspicion  had  yet  touched  Aileen.  As  for 
herself,  let  him  write  and  reassure  her  at  once.  Other- 
wise— 

And  the  latter  part  of  the  letter  conveyed  a  veiled 
menace  that  Warkworth  perfectly  understood. 

No — in  that  direction,  no  escape;  his  own  past  actions 
closed  him  in.  And  henceforth,  it  was  clear,  he  must 
walk  more  warily. 

But  how  blame  himself  for  these  feelings  of  which 
he  was  now  conscious  towards  Julie  Le  Breton — the 
strongest,  probably,  that  a  man  not  built  for  passion 
would  ever  know.  His  relation  towards  her  had  grown 
upon  him  unawares,  and  now  their  own  hands  were 
about  to  cut  it  at  the  root.  What  blame  to  either  of 
them  ?  Fate  had  been  at  work ;  and  he  felt  himself  glori- 
fied by  a  situation  so  tragically  sincere,  and  by  emotions 
of  which  a  month  before  he  would  have  secretly  held 
himself  incapable. 

Resolutely,  in  this  last  meeting  with  Julie,  he  gave 
323 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

these  emotions  play.  He  possessed  himself  of  her  cold 
hands  as  she  put  her  desolate  question — "And  then?" — 
and  kissed  them  fervently. 

"Julie,  if  you  and  I  had  met  a  year  ago,  what  hap- 
pened in  India  would  never  have  happened.  You  know 
that!" 

"Do  I?  But  it  only  hurts  me  to  think  it  away  like 
that.     There  it  is — it  has  happened." 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly. 

"Have  you  any  picture  of  her?" 

He  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Have  you  got  it  here?" 

"Why  do  you  ask,  dear  one?  This  one  evening  is 
ours." 

And  again  he  tried  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  she 
persisted. 

"1  feel  sure  you  have  it.     Show  it  me." 

"Julie,  you  and  you  only  are  in  my  thoughts!" 

"Then  do  what  I  ask."  She  bent  to  him  with  a  wild, 
entreating  air;  her  lips  almost  touched  his  cheek.  Un- 
willingly he  drew  out  a  letter-case  from  Lis  breast-pocket, 
and  took  from  it  a  little  photograph  which  he  handed 
to  her. 

She  looked  at  it  with  eager  eyes.  A  face  framed,  as  it 
were,  out  of  snow  and  fire  lay  in  her  hand,  a  thing  most 
delicate,  most  frail,  yet  steeped  in  feeling  and  signif- 
icance— a  child's  face  with  its  soft  curls  of  brown  hair, 
and  the  upper  lip  raised  above  the  white,  small  teeth, 
as  though  in  a  young  wonder;  yet  behind  its  sweetness, 
what  suggestions  of  a  poetic  or  tragic  sensibility!  The 
slender  neck  carried  the  Httle  head  with  girlish  dignity; 

324 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  clear,  timid  eyes  seemed  at  once  to  shrink  from  and 
trust  the  spectator. 

Julie  returned  the  httle  picture,  and  hid  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Warkworth  watched  her  uncomfortably,  and 
at  last  drew  her  hands  away. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  said,  almost  with 
violence.     "Don't  shut  me  out!" 

"I  am  not  jealous  now,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  pit- 
eously.  "  I  don't  hate  her.  And  if  she  knew  all — she 
couldn't — hate  me." 

"No  one  could  hate  her.  She  is  an  angel.  But  she 
is  not  my  Julie!"  he  said,  vehemently,  and  he  thrust  the 
little  picture  into  his  pocket  again. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  knee,  "when  did  you  begin  to  think  of  me — dif- 
ferently? All  the  winter,  when  we  used  to  meet,  you 
never — you  never  loved  me  then  ?" 

"  How,  placed  as  I  was,  could  T  let  myself  think  of 
love?  I  only  knew  that  I  wanted  to  see  you,  to  talk  to 
you,  to  write  to  you — that  the  day  when  we  did  not 
meet  was  a  lost  day.  Don't  be  so  proud!"  He  tried  to 
laugh  at  her.  "You  didn't  think  of  me  in  any  special 
way,  either.  You  were  much  too  busy  making  bishops, 
or  judges,  or  academicians.  Oh,  Julie,  I  was  so  afraid 
of  you  in  those  early  days!" 

"The  first  night  we  met,"  she  said,  passionately,  "I 
found  a  carnation  you  had  worn  in  your  button-hole.  I 
put  it  under  my  pillow,  and  felt  for  it  in  the  dark  like  a 
talisman.  You  had  stood  between  me  and  Lady  Henry 
twice.  You  had  smiled  at  me  and  pressed  my  hand — 
not  as  others  did,  but  as  though  you  understood  me, 
myself — as  though,  at  least,  you  wished  to  understand. 

325 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Then  came  the  joy  of  joys,  that  I  could  help  you — that  I 
could  do  something  for  you.  Ah,  how  it  altered  life  for 
me!  I  never  turned  the  corner  of  a  street  that  I  did  not 
count  on  the  chance  of  seeing  you  beyond — suddenly — 
on  my  path.  I  never  heard  your  voice  that  it  did  not 
thrill  me  from  head  to  foot.  I  never  made  a  new  friend 
or  acquaintance  that  I  did  not  ask  myself  first  how  I 
could  thereby  serve  you.  I  never  saw  you  come  into  the 
room  that  my  heart  did  not  leap.  I  never  slept  but  you 
were  in  my  dreams.  I  loathed  London  when  you  were 
out  of  it.     It  was  paradise  when  you  were  there." 

Straining  back  from  him  as  he  still  held  her  hands, 
her  whole  face  and  form  shook  with  the  energy  of  her 
confession.  Her  wonderful  hair,  loosened  from  the  thin 
gold  bands  in  which  it  had  been  confined  during  the 
evening,  fell  in  a  glossy  confusion  about  her  brow  and 
slender  neck;  its  black  masses,  the  melting  brilliance  of 
the  eyes,  the  tragic  freedom  of  the  attitude  gave  both  to 
form  and  face  a  wild  and  poignant  beauty. 

Warkworth,  beside  her,  was  conscious  first  of  amaze- 
ment, then  of  a  kind  of  repulsion — a  kind  of  fear — till 
all  else  was  lost  in  a  hurry  of  joy  and  gratitude. 

The  tears  stood  on  his  cheek.  "  JuHe,  you  shame  me 
— you  trample  me  into  the  earth!" 

He  tried  to  gather  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  resisted. 
Caresses  were  not  what  those  eyes  demanded — eyes  fever- 
ishly bright  with  the  memory  of  her  own  past  dreams. 
Presently,  indeed,  she  withdrew  herself  from  him.  She 
rose  and  closed  the  window ;  she  put  the  lamp  in  another 
place;  she  brought  her  rebellious  hair  into  order. 

"We  must  not  be  so  mad,"  she  said,  with  a  quivering 
smile,  as  she  again  seated  herself,  but  at  some  distance 

326 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

from  him.  "  You  see,  for  me  the  great  question  is  " — her 
voice  became  low  and  rapid — "What  am  I  going  to  do 
with  the  future?  For  you  it  is  all  plain.  We  part  to- 
night. You  have  your  career,  your  marriage.  I  with- 
draw from  your  life — absolutely.     But  for  me — " 

She  paused.  It  was  the  manner  of  one  trying  to  see 
her  way  in  the  dark. 

"Your  social  gifts,"  said  Warkworth,  in  agitation, 
"  your  friends,  Julie — these  will  occupy  your  mind.  Then, 
of  course,  you  will,  you  must  marry!  Oh,  you'll  soon 
forget  me,  Julie!     I  pray  you  may!" 

"My  social  gifts?"  she  repeated,  disregarding  the  rest 
of  his  speech.  "I  have  told  you  already  they  have 
broken  down.  Society  sides  with  Lady  Henry.  I  am  to 
be  made  to  know  my  place — I  do  know  it!" 

"The  Duchess  will  fight  for  you." 

She  laughed. 

■'The  Duke  won't  let  her — nor  shall  I." 

"You'll  marry,"  he  repeated,  with  emotion.  "You'll 
find  some  one  worthy  of  you — some  one  who  will  give 
you  the  great  position  for  which  you  were  born." 

"I  could  have  it  at  any  moment,"  she  said,  looking 
him  quietly  in  the  eyes. 

Warkworth  drew  back,  conscious  of  a  disagreeable 
shock.  He  had  been  talking  in  generalities,  giving 
away  the  future  with  that  fluent  prodigality,  that  easy 
prophecy  which  costs  so  little.     What  did  she  mean? 

"  Delafield?"  he  cried. 

And  he  waited  for  her  reply — which  lingered — in  a 
tense  and  growing  eagerness.  The  notion  had  crossed 
his  mind  once  or  twice  during  the  winter,  only  to  be  dis- 
missed as  ridiculous.     Then,  on  the  occasion  of  their 

327 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

first  quarrel,  when  Julie  had  snubbed  him  in  Delafield's 
presence  and  to  Delafield's  advantage,  he  had  been  con- 
scious of  a  momentar}^  alarm.  But  Julie,  who  on  that 
one  and  only  occasion  had  paraded  her  intimacy  with 
Delafield,  thenceforward  said  not  a  word  of  him,  and 
Warkworth's  jealousy  had  died  for  lack  of  fuel.  In  rela- 
tion to  Julie,  Delafield  had  been  surely  the  mere  shadow 
and  agent  of  his  little  cousin  the  Duchess — a  friendly, 
knight-errant  sort  of  person,  with  a  liking  for  the  dis- 
tressed. What !  the  heir-presumptive  of  Chudleigh  Ab- 
bey, and  one  of  the  most  famous  of  English  dukedoms, 
when  even  he,  the  struggling,  penurious  officer,  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  such  a  match? 

Julie,  meanwhile,  heard  only  jealousy  in  his  excla- 
mation, and  it  caressed  her  ear,  her  heart.  She  was 
tempted  once  more,  woman-like,  to  dwell  upon  the  other 
lover,  and  again  something  compelling  and  delicate  in  her 
feeling  towards  Delafield  forbade. 

"No,  you  mustn't  make  me  tell  you  any  more,"  she 
said,  putting  the  name  aside  with  a  proud  gesture.  "  It 
would  be  poor  and  mean.  But  it's  true.  I  have  only 
to  put  out  my  hand  for  what  you  call  '  a  great  position.' 
I  have  refused  to  put  it  out.  Sometimics,  of  course,  it 
has  dazzled  me.  To-night  it  seems  to  me — dust  and  ashes. 
No;  when  we  two  have  said  good-bye,  I  shall  begin  life 
again.  And  this  time  I  shall  live  it  in  my  own  way,  for 
my  own  ends.  Fm  very  tired.  Henceforth  'I'll  walk 
where  my  own  nature  would  be  leading — it  vexes  me  to 
choose  another  guide.'" 

And  as  she  spoke  the  words  of  one  of  the  chainless 
souls  of  history,  in  a  voice  passionately  full  and  rich, 
she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and,  drav\'-ing  her  slender  form  to 

328 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

its  full  height,  she  locked  her  hands  behind  her,  and  be- 
gan to  pace  the  room  with  a  wild,  free  step. 

Every  nerve  in  Warkworth's  frame  was  tingling.  He 
was  carried  out  of  himself,  first  by  the  rebellion  of  her 
look  and  manner,  then  by  this  fact,  so  new,  so  astound- 
ing, which  her  very  evasion  had  confirmed.  During  her 
whole  contest  with  Lady  Henry,  and  now,  in  her  present 
ambiguous  position,  she  had  Deiafield,  and  through 
Delafield  the  English  great  world,  in  the  hollow  of  her 
hand?  This  nameless  woman — no  longer  in  her  first 
youth.  And  she  had  refused?  He  watched  her  in  a 
speechless  wonder  and  incredulity. 

The  thought  leaped.  "And  this  sublime  folly — this 
madness — was  for  me?'' 

It  stirred  and  intoxicated  him.  Yet  she  was  not 
thereby  raised  in  his  eyes.  Nay,  the  contrary.  With 
the  passion  which  was  rapidly  mounting  in  his  veins 
there  mingled — poor  Julie! — a  curious  diminution  of  re- 
spect. 

"Julie!"  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  peremptorily. 
"Come  to  me  again.  You  are  so  wonderful  to-night,  in 
that  white  dress — like  a  wild  muse.  I  shall  always  see 
you  so.     Come!" 

She  obeyed,  and  gave  him  her  hands,  standing  beside 
his  chair.     But  her  face  was  still  absorbed. 

"To  be  free,"  she  said,  under  her  breath — "free,  like 
my  parents,  from  all  these  petty  struggles  and  conven- 
tions!" 

Then  she  felt  his  kisses  on  her  hands,  and  her  expres- 
sion changed. 

"  How  we  cheat  ourselves  with  words!"  she  whispered, 
trembling,  and,  withdrawing  one  hand,  she  smoothed 

329 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

back  the  light -brown  curls  from  his  brow  with  that  pro- 
tecting tenderness  which  had  always  entered  into  her 
love  for  him.  ' '  To-night  we  are  here — together — this  one 
last  night!  And  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  you'll  be  in 
Paris;  perhaps  you'll  be  looking  out  at  the  lights — and 
the  crowds  on  the  Boulevard — and  the  chestnut-trees. 
They'll  just  be  in  their  first  leaf — I  know  so  well! — and 
the  little  thin  leaves  will  be  shining  so  green  under  the 
lamps — and  I  shall  be  here — and  it  will  be  all  over  and 
done  with — forever.  What  will  it  matter  whether  I  am 
free  or  not  free?  I  shall  be  alone!  That's  all  a  woman 
knows." 

Her  voice  died  away.  Warkworth  rose.  He  put  his 
arms  round  her,  and  she  did  not  resist. 

"Julie,"  he  said  in  her  ear,  "why  should  you  be 
alone?" 

A  silence  fell  between  them. 

"I — I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"Julie,  listen!  I  shall  be  three  days  in  Paris,  but 
my  business  can  be  perfectly  done  in  one.  What  if  you 
met  me  there  after  to-morrow?  What  harm  would  it 
be?  We  are  not  babes,  we  two.  We  understand  life. 
And  who  would  have  any  right  to  blame  or  to  meddle? 
Julie,  I  know  a  little  inn  in  the  valley  of  the  Bievre, 
quite  near  Paris,  but  all  wood  and  field.  No  English 
tourists  ever  go  there.  Sometimes  an  artist  or  two — 
but  this  is  not  the  time  of  year.  Julie,  why  shouldn't 
we  spend  our  last  two  days  there — together — away  from 
all  the  world,  before  we  say  good-bye?  You've  been 
afraid  here  of  prying  people — of  the  Duchess  even — of 
Madame  Bornier — how  she  scowls  at  me  sometimes! 
Why  shouldn't  we  sweep  all  that  away — and  be  happy! 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

Nobody  should  ever — nobody  could  ever  know."  His 
voice  dropped,  became  still  more  hurried  and  soft.  "  We 
might  go  as  brother  and  sister  —  that  would  be  quite 
simple.  You  are  practically  French.  I  speak  French 
well.  Who  is  to  have  an  idea,  a  suspicion  of  our  identity? 
The  spring  there  is  mild  and  warm.  The  Bois  de  Ver- 
riferes  close  by  is  full  of  flowers.  When  my  father  was 
alive,  and  I  was  a  child,  we  went  once,  to  economize, 
for  a  year,  to  a  village  a  mile  or  two  away.  But  I  knew 
this  place  quite  well.  A  lovely,  green,  quiet  spot!  With 
your  poetical  ideas,  Julie,  you  would  delight  in  it.  Two 
days — wandering  in  the  woods — together!  Then  I  put 
you  into  the  train  for  Brussels,  and  I  go  my  way.  But 
to  all  eternity,  Julie,  those  days  will  have  been  ours!" 

At  the  first  words,  almost,  Julie  had  disengaged  herself. 
Pushing  him  from  her  with  both  hands,  she  listened  to 
him  in  a  dumb  amazement.  The  color  first  deserted  her 
face,  then  returned  in  a  flood. 

"So  you  despise  me?"  she  said,  catching  her  breath. 

"No.     I  adore  you." 

She  fell  upon  a  chair  and  hid  her  eyes.  He  first 
knelt  beside  her,  arguing  and  soothing;  then  he  paced  up 
and  down  before  her,  talking  very  fast  and  low,  defend- 
ing and  developing  the  scheme,  till  it  stood  before  them 
complete  and  tempting  in  all  its  details. 

Julie  did  not  look  up,  nor  did  she  speak.  At  last, 
Warkworth,  full  of  tears,  and  stifled  with  his  own  emo- 
tions, threw  open  the  window  again  in  a  craving  for  air 
and  coolness.  A  scent  of  fresli  leaves  and  moistened 
earth  floated  up  from  the  shrubbery  beneath  the  window. 
The  scent,  the  branching  trees,  the  wide,  mild  spaces  of 
air  brought  relief.  He  leaned  out,  bathing  his  brow  in 
II— 7  331 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  night.  A  tumult  of  voices  seemed  to  be  echoing 
through  his  mind,  dominated  by  one  which  held  the  rest 
defiantly  in  check. 

"  Is  she  a  mere  girl,  to  be  'led  astray'?  A  moment  of 
happiness — what  harm? — for  either  of  us?" 

Then  he  returned  to  Julie. 

"Julie!"  He  touched  her  shoulder,  trembling.  Had 
she  banished  him  forever?  It  seem.ed  to  him  that  in 
these  minutes  he  had  passed  through  an  infinity  of  ex- 
perience. Was  he  not  the  nobler,  the  more  truly  man? 
Let  the  moralists  talk. 

"Julie!"  he  repeated,  in  an  anguish. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  he  saw  that  she  had  been 
crying.  But  there  was  in  her  face  a  light,  a  wildness,  a 
yearning  that  reassured  him.  vShe  put  her  arm  round 
him  and  pressed  her  cheek  to  his.  He  divined  that  she, 
too,  had  lived  and  felt  a  thousand  hours  in  one.  With  a 
glow  of  ecstatic  joy  he  began  to  talk  to  her  again,  her 
head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  her  slender  hands  crushed 
in  his. 

And  JuHe,  meanwhile,  was  saying  to  herself,  "  Either 
I  go  to  him,  as  he  asks,  or  in  a  few  minutes  I  must  send 
him  away — forever." 

And  then  as  she  clung  to  him,  so  warm  and  near,  her 
strength  failed  her.  Nothing  in  the  world  mattered  to 
her  at  that  moment  but  this  handsom.e,  curly  head  bowed 
upon  her  own,  this  voice  that  called  her  all  the  names 
of  love,  this  transformation  of  the  man's  earlier  prudence, 
or  ambition,  or  duplicity,  into  this  eager  tenderness,  this 
anguish  in  separation.   .   .   . 

"Listen,  dear!"  He  whispered  to  her.  "All  my  busi- 
ness can  be  got  through  the  day  before  you  come.     I 

2>^2 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

have  two  men  to  see.  A  day  will  be  ample.  I  dine  at 
the  Embassy  to-morrow  night  —  that  is  arranged;  the 
day  after  I  lunch  with  the  Mihtary  Secretary;  then — a 
thousand  regrets,  but  I  must  hurry  on  to  meet  some 
friends  in  Italy.  So  I  turn  my  back  on  Paris,  and  for 
two  days  I  belong  to  Julie — and  she  to  me.  Say  yes, 
Julie — my  Julie!" 

He  bent  over  her,  his  hands  framing  her  face. 

"Say  yes,"  he  urged,  "and  put  off  for  both  of  us  that 
word — alone!" 

His  low  voice  sank  into  her  heart.  He  waited,  till  his 
strained  sense  caught  the  murmured  words  which  con- 
veyed to  him  the  madness  and  the  astonishment  of 
victory. 

Ldonie  had  shut  up  the  house,  in  a  grim  silence,  and 
had  taken  her  way  up-stairs  to  bed. 

Julie,  too,  was  in  her  room.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  her  head  drooped,  her  hands  clasped  before  her 
absently,  like  Hope  still  listening  for  the  last  sounds  of 
the  harp  of  life.  The  candle  beside  her  showed  her,  in 
the  big  mirror  opposite,  her  grace,  the  white  confusion 
of  her  dress. 

She  had  expected  reaction,  but  it  did  not  come.  She 
was  still  borne  on  a  warm  tide  of  will  and  energy.  All 
that  she  was  about  to  do  seemed  to  her  still  perfectly 
natural  and  right.  Petty  scruples,  conventional  hesita- 
tions, the  refusal  of  life's  great  moments — these  arc  what 
arc  wrong,  these  are  what  disgrace! 

Romance  beckoned  to  her,  and  many  a  secret  ten- 
dency towards  the  lawless  paths  of  conduct,  infused  into 
her  by   the    associations   and   affections  of  her  child- 

332 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

hood.  The  horror  nahiralis  which  protects  the  great 
majority  of  women  from  the  wilder  ways  of  passion 
was  in  her  weakened  or  dormant.  She  was  the  ille- 
gitimate child  of  a  mother  who  had  defied  law  for 
love,  and  of  that  fact  she  had  been  conscious  all  her 
Hfe. 

A  sharp  contempt,  indeed,  arose  within  her  for  the 
interpretation  that  the  common  mind  would  be  sure  to 
place  upon  her  action. 

"What  matter!  I  am  my  own  mistress—  respon- 
sible to  no  one.  I  choose  for  myself — I  dare  for 
myself!" 

And  when  at  last  she  rose,  first  loosening  and  then 
twisting  the  black  masses  of  her  hair,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  form  in  the  glass  was  that  of  another  woman, 
treading  another  earth.  She  trampled  cowardice  under 
foot;  she  freed  herself  from — "  v/as  uns  alle  bandigt,  das 
Gemeine!" 

Then  as  she  stood  before  the  oval  mirror  in  a  classical 
frame,  which  adorned  the  mantel-piece  of  what  had  once 
been  Lady  Mary  Leicester's  room,  her  eye  was  vaguely 
caught  by  the  little  family  pictures  and  texts  which  hung 
on  either  side  of  it.  Lady  Mary  and  her  sister  as  children, 
their  plain  faces  emerging  timidly  from  their  white,  high- 
waisted  frocks;  Lady  Mary's  mother,  an  old  lady  in  a 
white  coif  and  kerchief,  wearing  a  look  austerely  kind; 
on  the  other  side  a  clergyman,  perhaps  the  brother 
of  the  old  lady,  with  a  similar  type  of  face,  though 
gentler  —  a  face  nourished  on  the  Christian  Year; 
and  above  and  below  them  two  or  three  card-board 
texts,  carefully  illuminated  by  Lady  Mary  Leicester 
herself: 

334 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Thou,  Lord,  knowest  my  down-sitting  and  my  upris- 

mg. 

"  Wash  me,  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow." 

"  Fear  not,  little  flock.     It  is  your  Father's  good  pleasure 

to  give  you  the  kingdom." 

Julie  observed  these  fragments,  absently  at  first,  then 
with  repulsion.  This  Anglican  pietism,  so  well  fed,  so 
narrowly  sheltered,  which  measured  the  universe  with 
its  foot-rule,  seemed  to  her  quasi-Catholic  eye  merely 
fatuous  and  hypocritical.  It  is  not  by  such  forces,  she 
thought,  that  the  true  world  of  men  and  women  is 
governed. 

As  she  turned  away  she  noticed  two  little  Catholic 
pictures,  such  as  she  had  been  accustomed  in  her  con- 
vent days  to  carry  in  her  books  of  devotion,  carefully 
propped  up  beneath  the  texts. 

"Ah,  Therese!"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  pain.     "Is  the  child  asleep?" 

She  listened.  A  little  cough  sounded  from  the  neigh- 
boring room.     Julie  crossed  the  landing. 

"Thdrese!  tu  ne  dors  pas  encore?" 

A  voice  said,  softly,  in  the  darkness,  "  Je  t'attendais, 
mademoiselle." 

Julie  went  to  the  child's  bed,  put  down  her  candle,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her. 

The  child's  thin  hand  caressed  her  cheek. 

"Ah,  it  will  be  good — to  be  in  Bruges — with  mad- 
emoiselle." 

Julie  drew  herself  away. 

"  I  sha'n't  be  there  to-morrow,  dear." 

"  Not  there !     Oh,  mademoiselle !" 

The  child's  voice  was  pitiful. 
335 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  shall  join  you  there.  But  I  find  I  must  go  to 
Paris  first.     I — I  have  some  business  there," 

"But  maman  said — " 

"  Yes,  I  have  only  just  made  up  my  mind.  I  shall  tell 
maman  to-morrow  morning," 

"You  go  alone,  mademoiselle?" 

"Why  not,  dear  goose?" 

"Vous  etes  fatiguee.  I  would  like  to  come  with  you, 
and  carry  your  cloak  and  the  umbrellas." 

"You,  indeed!"  said  Julie.  "It  would  end,  wouldn't 
it,  in  my  carrying  you — besides  the  cloak  and  the  um- 
brellas?" 

Then  she  knelt  down  beside  the  child  and  took  her 
in  her  arms. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Therese?" 

The  child  drew  a  long  breath.  With  her  little,  twisted 
hands  she  stroked  the  beautiful  hair  so  close  to  her. 

"Do  you,  Therese?" 

A  kiss  fell  on  Julie's  cheek. 

"Ce  soir,  j'ai  beaucoup  prie  la  Sainte  Vierge  pour 
vous!"  she  said,  in  a  timid  and  hurried  whisper. 

Julie  m.ade  no  immediate  reply.  She  rose  from  her 
knees,  her  hand  still  clasped  in  that  of  the  crippled 
girl. 

"Did  you  put  those  pictures  on  my  mantel-piece, 
Therese?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

The  child  hesitated. 

"It  does  one  good  to  look  at  them — n'est  ce  pas?— 
;vhen  one  is  sad?" 

"Why  do  you  suppose  I  am  sad?" 
336 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Th^rese  was  silent, a  moment;  then  she  flung  her  little 
skeleton  arms  round  Julie,  and  Julie  felt  her  crying. 

"Well,  I  v/on't  be  sad  any  more,"  said  Julie,  com- 
forting her.  "  When  we're  all  in  Bruges  together,  you'll 
see." 

And  smiling  at  the  child,  she  tucked  her  into  her  white 
bed  and  left  her. 

Then  from  this  exquisite  and  innocent  affection  she 
passed  back  into  the  tumult  of  her  own  thoughts  and 
plans.  Through  the  restless  night  her  parents  were 
often  in  her  mind.  She  was  the  child  of  revolt,  and  as 
she  thought  of  the  meeting  before  her  she  seemed  to 
be  but  entering  upon  a  heritage  inevitable  from  the  be- 
ginning. A  sense  of  enfranchisement,  of  passionate  en- 
largement, upheld  her,  as  of  a  life  coming  to  its  fruit. 

"CreJl!" 

A  flashing  vision  of  a  station  and  its  lights,  and  the 
Paris  train  rushed  on  through  cold  showers  of  sleet  and 
driving  wind,  a  return  of  winter  in  the  heart  of  spring. 

On  they  sped  through  the  half-hour  v/hich  still  divided 
them  from  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Julie,  in  her  thick  veil,  sat 
motionless  in  her  corner.  She  was  not  conscious  of  any 
particular  agitation.  Her  mind  was  strained  not  to 
forget  any  of  Warkworth's  directions.  She  was  to  drive 
across  immediately  to  the  Gare  de  Sceaux,  in  the  Place 
Denfert-Rochereau,  where  he  would  meet  her.  They 
were  to  dine  at  an  obscure  inn  near  the  station,  and  go 
down  by  the  last  train  to  the  little  town  in  the  wooded 
valley  of  the  Bievre,  where  they  were  to  stay. 

She  had  her  luggage  with  her  in  the  carriage.  There 
would  be  no  custom-house  delays. 

337 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Ah,  the  lights  of  Paris  beginning!  She  peered  into 
the  rain,  conscious  of  a  sort  of  home-coming  joy.  She 
loved  the  French  world  and  the  French  sights  and  sounds 
— these  tall,  dingy  houses  of  the  banlieiie,  the  dregs  of 
a  great  architecture;  the  advertisements;  the  look  of 
the  streets. 

The  train  slackened  into  the  Nord  Station.  The  blue- 
frocked  porters  crowded  into  the  carriages. 

"C'est  tout,  madame.''  Vous  n'avez  pas  de  grands 
bagages?" 

"No,  nothing.     Find  me  a  cab  at  once." 

There  was  a  great  crowd  outside.  She  hurried  on  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  revolving  what  was  to  be  said  if 
any  acquaintance  were  to  accost  her.  By  great  good 
luck,  and  by  travelling  second  class  both  in  the  train  and 
on  the  boat,  she  had  avoided  meeting  anybody  she  knew. 
But  the  Nord  Station  was  crowded  with  English  people, 
and  she  pushed  her  way  through  in  a  nervous  terror. 

"Miss  Le  Breton!" 

She  turned  abruptly.  In  the  white  glare  of  the  electric 
lights  she  did  not  at  first  recognize  the  man  who  had 
spoken  to  her.  Then  she  drew  back.  Her  heart  beat 
wildly.  For  she  had  distinguished  the  face  of  Jacob 
Delafield. 

He  came  forward  to  meet  her  as  she  passed  the  barrier 
at  the  end  of  the  platform,  his  aspect  full  of  what  seemed 
to  her  an  extraordinary  animation,  significance,  as 
though  she  were  expected. 

"Miss  Le  Breton!  What  an  astonishing,  what  a  fort- 
unate meeting!     I  have  a  message  for  you  from  Evelyn." 

"From  Evelyn?"  She  echoed  the  words  mechanically 
as  she  shook  hands. 

338 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  leading  her  aside  towards 
the  waiting-room,  while  the  crowd  that  was  going  to  the 
doiiane  passed  them  by.  Then  he  turned  to  Julie's 
porter. 

"Attendez  un  instant." 

The  man  sulkily  shook  his  head,  dropped  Julie's  bag  at 
their  feet,  and  hurried  off  in  search  of  a  more  lucrative 
job. 

"I  am  going  back  to-night,"  added  Delafield,  hurried- 
ly. "How  strange  that  I  should  have  met  you,  for  I 
have  very  sad  news  for  you!  Lord  Lackington  had  an 
attack  this  morning,  from  which  he  cannot  recover.  The 
doctors  give  him  perhaps  forty-eight  hours.  He  has 
asked  for  you — urgently.  The  Duchess  tells  me  so  in  a 
long  telegram  I  had  from  her  to-day.  But  she  supposed 
you  to  be  in  Bruges.  She  has  wired  there.  You  will  go 
back,  will  you  not?" 

"Go  back?"  said  Julie,  staring  at  him  helplessly,  "Go 
back  to-night?" 

"The  evening  train  starts  in  little  more  than  an  hour. 
You  would  be  just  in  time,  I  think,  to  see  the  old  man 
alive." 

She  still  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment,  at  the  blue 
eyes  under  the  heavily  moulded  brows,  and  the  mouth 
with  its  imperative,  and  yet  eager — or  tremulous? — ex- 
pression.    She  perceived  that  he  hung  upon  her  answer. 

She  drew  her  hand  piteously  across  her  eyes  as  though 
to  shut  out  the  crowds,  the  station,  and  the  urgency  of 
this  personality  beside  her.  Despair  was  in  her  heart. 
How  to  consent?     How  to  refuse? 

"But  my  friends,"  she  stammered — "the  friends  with 
whom  I  was  going  to  stay — they  will  be  alarmed." 

339 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Could  you  not  telegraph  to  them?  They  would  un- 
derstand, surely.     The  office  is  close  by." 

She  let  herself  be  hurried  along,  not  knowing  what  to 
do.  Delafield  walked  beside  her.  If  she  had  been  able 
to  observe  him,  she  must  have  been  struck  afresh  by  the 
pale  intensity,  the  controlled  agitation  of  his  face. 

"Is  it  really  so  serious?"  she  asked,  pausing  a  mo- 
ment, as  though  in  resistance. 

"  It  is  the  end.  Of  that  there  can  be  no  question.  You 
have  touched  his  heart  very  deeply.  He  longs  to  see 
her,  Evelyn  says.  And  his  daughter  and  grand- 
daughter are  still  abroad — Miss  Moflfatt,  indeed,  is  ill  at 
Florence  with  a  touch  of  diphtheria.  He  is  alone  with  his 
two  sons.     You  will  go?" 

Even  in  her  confusion,  the  strangeness  of  it  all  was 
borne  in  upon  her  —  his  insistence,  the  extraordinary 
chance  of  their  meeting,  his  grave,  commanding  man- 
ner. 

"How  could  you  know  I  was  here?"  she  said,  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  But,  thank  God,  I 
have  met  you.  I  dread  to  think  of  your  fatigue,  but 
you  will  be  glad  just  to  see  him  again — just  to  give  him 
his  last  wish — won't  you?"  he  said,  pleadingly.  "Here 
is  the  telegraph-office.     Shall  I  do  it  for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I — I  must  think  how  to  word  it. 
Please  wait." 

She  went  in  alone.  As  she  took  the  pencil  into  her 
hands  a  low  groan  burst  from  her  lips.  The  man  writ- 
ing in  the  next  compartment  turned  round  in  astonish- 
ment. She  controlled  herself  and  began  to  write.  There 
was  no  escape.     She  must  submit;  and  all  was  over. 

340 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

She  telegraphed  to  Warkworth,  care  of  the  Chef  de 
Gare,  at  the  Sceaux  Station,  and  also  to  the  country  inn. 

"  Have  met  Mr.  Delafield  by  chance  at  Nord  Station. 
Lora  Lackington  dying.  Must  return  to-night.  Where 
shall  I  write?     Good-bye." 

When  it  was  done  she  could  hardly  totter  out  of  the 
office.     Delafield  made  her  take  his  arm. 

"You  must  have  some  food.  Then  I  will  go  and  get 
a  sleeping-car  for  you  to  Calais.  There  will  be  no  crowd 
to-night.  At  Calais  I  will  look  after  you  if  you  will  al- 
low me  " 

"You  are  crossing  to-night?"  she  said,  vaguely.  Her 
lips  framed  the  words  with  difficulty. 

"Yes.     I  came  over  with  my  cousins  yesterday." 

She  asked  nothing  more.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
notice  that  he  had  no  luggage,  no  bag,  no  rug,  none  of 
the  paraphernalia  of  travel.  In  her  despairing  fatigue 
and  misery  she  let  him  guide  her  as  he  would. 

He  made  her  take  some  soup,  then  some  coffee,  all 
that  she  could  make  herself  swallow.  There  was  a  dis- 
mal period  of  waiting,  during  which  she  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  where  she  was  or  of  what  was  going  on  round 
her. 

Then  she  found  herself  in  the  sleeping-car,  in  a  re- 
served compartment,  alone.  Once  more  the  train  movea 
through  the  night.  The  miles  flew  by — the  miles  that 
forever  parted  her  from  Warkworth. 


XIX 

THE  train  was  speeding  through  the  forest  country 
of  Chantilly.  A  pale  moon  had  risen,  and  beneath 
its  hght  the  straight  forest  roads,  interminably  long, 
stretched  into  the  distance;  the  vaporous  masses  of 
young  and  budding  trees  hurried  past  the  eye  of  the 
traveller;  so,  also,  the  white  hamlets,  already  dark  and 
silent;  the  stations  with  their  lights  and  figures;  the 
great  wood-piles  beside  the  line. 

Delafield,  in  his  second-class  carriage,  sat  sleepless  and 
erect.  The  night  was  bitterly  cold.  He  wore  the  light 
overcoat  in  which  he  had  left  the  Hotel  du  Rhin  that 
afternoon  for  a  stroll  before  dinner,  and  had  no  other 
wrap  or  covering.  But  he  felt  nothing,  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  rushing  current  of  his  own  thoughts. 

The  events  of  the  two  preceding  days,  the  meaning  of 
them,  the  significance  of  his  own  action  and  its  conse- 
quences— it  was  with  these  materials  that  his  mind  dealt 
perpetually,  combining,  interpreting,  deducing,  now  in 
one  way,  now  in  another.  His  mood  contained  both  ex- 
citement and  dread.  But  with  a  main  temper  of  calm- 
ness, courage,  invincible  determination,  these  elements 
did  not  at  all  interfere. 

The  day  before,  he  had  left  London  with  his  cousins, 
the  Duke  of  Chudleigh,  and  young  Lord  Elmira,  the  in- 
valid boy.     They  were  bound  to  Paris  to  consult  a  new 

342 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

doctor,  and  Jacob  had  offered  to  convey  them  there.  In 
spite  of  all  the  apparatus  of  servants  and  couriers  with 
which  they  were  surrounded,  they  always  seemed  to  him, 
on  their  journeys,  a  singularly  lonely  and  hapless  pair, 
and  he  knew  that  they  leaned  upon  him  and  prized  his 
company. 

On  the  way  to  Paris,  at  the  Calais  buffet,  he  had 
noticed  Henry  Warkworth,  and  had  given  him  a  passing 
nod.  It  had  been  understood  the  night  before  in  Heri- 
bert  Street  that  they  would  both  be  crossing  on  the 
morrow. 

On  the  following  day — the  day  of  Julie's  journey — 
Delafield,  who  was  anxiously  awaiting  the  return  of  his 
two  companions  from  their  interview  with  the  great  phy- 
sician they  were  consulting,  was  strolling  up  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix,  just  before  luncheon,  when,  outside  the  Hotel 
Mirabeau,  he  ran  into  a  man  whom  he  immediately  per- 
ceived to  be  Warkworth. 

Politeness  involved  the  exchange  of  a  few  sentences, 
although  a  secret  antagonism  between  the  two  men  had 
revealed  itself  from  the  first  day  of  their  meeting  in  Lady 
Henry's  drawing-room.  Each  word  of  their  short  con- 
versation rang  clearly  through  Delafield's  memory. 

"You  are  at  the  'Rhin'?"    said  Warkworth. 

"Yes,  for  a  couple  more  days.  Shall  we  meet  at  the 
Embassy  to-morrow?" 

"No.  I  dined  there  last  night.  My  business  here  is 
done.     I  start  for  Rome  to-night." 

"Lucky  man.  They  have  put  on  a  new  fast  train, 
haven't  they?" 

"Yes.  You  leave  the  Gare  de  Lyon  at  7.15,  and  you 
are  at  Rome  the  second  morning,  in  good  time," 

343 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Magnificent!  Why  don't  we  all  rush  south?  Well, 
good-bye  again,  and  good  luck." 

They  touched  hands  perfunctorily  and  parted. 

This  happened  about  mid-day.  While  Delafield  and 
his  cousins  were  lunching,  a  telegram  from  the  Duchess 
of  Crowborough  was  handed  to  Jacob.  He  had  wired  to 
her  early  in  the  morning  to  ask  for  the  address  in  Paris 
of  an  old  friend  of  his,  who  was  also  a  cousin  of  hers. 
The  telegram  contained: 

"Thirty-six  Avenue  Friedland.  Lord  Lackington  heart- 
attack  this  morning.  Dying.  Has  asked  urgently  for 
Julie.  Blanche  Moffatt  detained  Florence  by  daughter's 
illness.  All  circumstances  most  sad.  Woman  Heribert 
Street  gave  me  Bruges  address.     Have  wired  Julie  there." 

The  message  set  vibrating  in  Delafield's  mind  the 
tender  memory  which  already  existed  there  of  his  last 
talk  with  Julie,  of  her  strange  dependence  and  gentleness, 
her  haunting  and  pleading  personality.  He  hoped  with 
all  his  heart  she  might  reach  the  old  man  in  time,  that 
his  two  sons,  Uredale  and  William,  would  treat  her  kind- 
ly, and  that  it  would  be  found  when  the  end  came  that  he 
had  made  due  provision  for  her  as  his  granddaughter. 

But  he  had  small  leisure  to  give  to  thoughts  of  this 
kind.  The  physician's  report  in  the  morning  had  not 
been  encouraging,  and  his  two  travelling  companions 
demanded  all  the  sympathy  and  support  he  could  give 
them.  He  went  out  with  them  in  the  afternoon  to 
the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse  at  St.  Germain.  The  Duke,  a 
nervous  hypochondriac,  could  not  sleep  in  the  noise  of 
Paris,  and  was  accustomed  to  a  certain  apartment  in  this 
well-known  hotel,   which  was  often  reserved  for  him. 

344 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

Jacob  left  them  about  six  o'clock  to  return  to  Paris.  He 
was  to  meet  one  of  the  Embassy  attaches — an  old  Oxford 
friend — at  the  Cafe  Gaillard  for  dinner.  He  dressed  at 
the  "  Rhin,"  put  on  an  overcoat,  and  set  out  to  walk  to 
the  Rue  Gaillard  about  half -past  seven.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  "Mirabeau,"  he  saw  a  cab  with  luggage 
standing  at  the  door.  A  man  came  out  with  the  hotel 
concierge.  To  his  astonishment,  Delafield  recognized 
Wark  worth. 

The  young  officer  seemed  in  a  hurry  and  out  of  temper. 
At  any  rate,  he  jumped  into  the  cab  without  taking  any 
notice  of  the  two  sommeliers  and  the  concierge  who  stood 
round  expectant  of  francs,  and  when  the  concierge  in 
his  stiffest  manner  asked  where  the  man  was  to  drive, 
Warkworth  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  said, 
hastily,  to  the  cocher: 

"D'abord,  a  la  Gare  de  Sceaux!  Puis,  je  vous  dirai. 
Mais  d^pechez-vous!" 

The  cab  rolled  away,  and  Delafield  walked  on. 

Half -past  seven,  striking  from  all  the  Paris  towers! 
And  Warkworth 's  intention  in  the  morning  was  to  leave 
the  Gare  de  Lyon  at  7.15.  But  it  seemed  he  was  now 
bound,  at  7.30,  for  the  Gare  de  Sceaux,  from  which  point 
of  departure  it  was  clear  that  no  reasonable  man  would 
think  of  starting  for  the  Eternal  City. 

"D'abord,  k  la  Gare  de  Sceaux!" 

Then  he  was  not  catching  a  train? — at  any  rate,  im- 
mediately. He  had  some  other  business  first,  and  was 
perhaps  going  to  the  station  to  deposit  his  luggage? 

Suddenly  a  thought,  a  suspicion,  flashed  through  Dela- 
field's  mind,  which  set  his  heart  thumping  in  his  breast. 
In  after  days  he  was  often  puzzled  to  account  for  its 

345 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

origin,  still  more  for  the  extraordinary  force  with  which 
it  at  once  took  possession  of  all  his  energies.  In  his  more 
mystical  moments  of  later  life  he  rose  to  the  secret 
belief  that  God  had  spoken  to  him. 

At  any  rate,  he  at  once  hailed  a  cab,  and,  thinking  no 
more  of  his  dinner  engagement,  he  drove  post-haste  to 
the  Nord  Station.  In  those  days  the  Calais  train  arrived 
at  eight.  He  reached  the  station  a  few  minutes  before 
it  appeared.  When  at  last  it  drew  up,  amid  the  crowd 
on  the  platform  it  took  him  only  a  few  seconds  to  dis- 
tinguish the  dark  and  elegant  head  of  Julie  Le  Breton. 

A  pang  shot  through  him  that  pierced  to  the  very 
centre  of  life.  He  was  conscious  of  a  prayer  for  help  and 
a  clear  mind.  But  on  his  way  to  the  station  he  had 
rapidly  thought  out  a  plan  on  which  to  act  should  this 
mad  notion  in  his  brain  turn  out  to  have  any  support  in 
reality. 

It  had  so  much  support  that  Julie  Le  Breton  was  there 
—  in  Paris  —  and  not  at  Bruges,  as  she  had  led  the 
Duchess  to  suppose.  And  when  she  turned  her  startled 
face  upon  him,  his  wild  fancy  became,  for  himself,  a 
certainty. 

"Amiens!     Cinq  minutes  d'arret." 

Delafield  got  out  and  walked  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form. He  passed  the  closed  and  darkened  windows  of 
the  sleeping-car;  and  it  seemed  to  his  abnormally 
quickened  sense  that  he  was  beside  her,  bending  over 
her,  and  that  he  said  to  her: 

"Courage!     You  are  saved!     Let  us  thank  God!" 

A  boy  from  the  refreshment-room  came  along,  wheel- 
ing a  barrow  on  which  were  tea  and  coffee. 

346 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

Delafield  eagerly  drank  a  cup  of  tea  and  put  his 
hand  into  his  pocket  to  pay  for  it.  He  found  there 
three  francs  and  his  ticket.  After  paying  for  the  tea  he 
examined  his  purse.  That  contained  an  EngUsh  half- 
crown. 

So  he  had  had  with  him  just  enough  to  get  his  own 
second-class  ticket,  her  first  -  class,  and  a  sleeping-car. 
That  was  good  fortune,  seeing  that  the  bulk  of  his  money, 
with  his  return  ticket,  was  reposing  in  his  dressing-case 
at  the  Hotel  du  Rhin. 

"En  voiture!     En  voiture,  s'il  vous  plait!" 

He  settled  himself  once  more  in  his  corner,  and  the 
train  rushed  on.  This  time  it  was  the  strange  hour  at 
the  Gare  du  Nord  which  he  lived  through  again,  her 
white  face  opposite  to  him  in  the  refreshment-room,  the 
bewilderment  and  misery  she  had  been  so  little  able  to 
conceal,  her  spasmodic  attempts  at  conversation,  a  few 
vague  words  about  Lord  Lackington  or  the  Duchess,  and 
then  pauses,  when  her  great  eyes,  haggard  and  weary, 
stared  into  vacancy,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that 
her  thoughts  were  with  Warkworth,  and  that  she  was  in 
fierce  rebellion  against  his  presence  there,  and  this  action 
into  which  he  had  forced  her. 

As  for  him,  he  perfectly  understood  the  dilemma  in 
which  she  stood.  Either  she  must  accept  the  duty  of 
returning  to  the  death-bed  of  the  old  man,  her  mother's 
father,  or  she  must  confess  her  appointment  with  Wark- 
worth. 

Yet — suppose  he  had  been  mistaken?  Well,  the  tele- 
gram from  the  Duchess  covered  his  whole  action.  Lord 
Lackington  was  dying;  and  apart  from  all  question  of 
feeling,  Julie  Le  Breton's  friends  must  naturally  desire 
ii.-s  347 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

that  he  should  see  her,  acknowledge  her  before  his  two 
sons,  and,  with  their  consent,  provide  for  her  before  his 
death. 

But,  ah,  he  had  not  been  mistaken!  He  remembered 
her  hurried  refusal  when  he  had  asked  her  if  he  should 
telegraph  for  her  to  her  Paris  "  friends  " — how,  in  a  sud- 
den shame,  he  had  turned  away  that  he  might  not  see  the 
beloved  false  face  as  she  spoke,  might  not  seem  to  watch 
or  suspect  her. 

He  had  just  had  time  to  send  off  a  messenger,  first  to 
his  friend  at  the  Cafe  Gaillard,  and  then  to  the  Hotel  du 
Rhin,  before  escorting  her  to  the  sleeping-car. 

Ah,  how  piteous  had  been  that  dull  bewilderment 
with  which  she  had  turned  to  him! 

' '  But — my  ticket  ? ' ' 

"Here  they  are.  Oh,  never  mind — we  will  settle  in 
town.     Try  to  sleep.     You  must  be  very  tired." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  lips  trembled,  like 
those  of  a  miserable  child;  and  surely,  surely,  she  must 
hear  that  mad  beating  of  his  pulse! 

Boulogne  was  gone  in  a  flash.  Here  was  the  Somme, 
stretched  in  a  pale  silver  flood  beneath  the  moon — a  land 
of  dunes  and  stunted  pines,  of  wide  sea-marshes,  over 
which  came  the  roar  of  the  Channel.  Then  again  the 
sea  was  left  behind,  and  the  rich  Picard  country  rolled 
away  to  right  and  left.  Lights  here  and  there,  in  cot- 
tage or  villa — the  lights,  perhaps,  of  birth  or  death — 
companions  of  hope  or  despair. 

Calais! 

The  train  moved  slowly  up  to  the  boat-side.  Dela- 
field  jumped  out.  The  sleeping-car  was  yielding  up 
its  passengers.      He   soon  made   out  the   small  black 

348 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

hat  and  veil,  the  slender  form  in  the  dark  travelling- 
dress. 

Was  she  fainting?  For  she  seemed  to  him  to  waver 
as  he  approached  her,  and  the  porter  who  had  taken  her 
rugs  and  bag  was  looking  at  her  in  astonishment.  In  an 
instant  he  had  drawn  her  arm  within  his,  and  was  sup- 
porting her  as  he  best  could. 

"The  car  was  very  hot,  and  I  am.  so  tired.  I  only 
want  some  air." 

They  reached  the  deck. 

"You  will  go  down-stairs?" 

"No,  no — some  air!"  she  murmured,  and  he  saw  that 
she  could  hardly  keep  her  feet. 

But  in  a  few  moments  they  had  reached  the  shelter  on 
the  upper  deck  usually  so  well  filled  with  chairs  and 
passengers  on  a  day  crossing.  Now  it  was  entirely  de- 
serted The  boat  was  not  full,  the  night  was  cold  and 
stormy,  and  the  stream  of  passengers  had  poured  down 
into  the  shelter  of  the  lower  deck. 

Julie  sank  into  a  chair.  Delafield  hurriedly  loosened 
the  shawl  she  carried  with  her  from  its  attendant  bag 
and  umbrella,  and  wrapped  it  round  her, 

"It  will  be  a  rough  crossing,"  he  said,  in  her  ear. 
"Can  you  stand  it  on  deck?" 

"  I  am  a  good  sailor.     Let  me  stay  here." 

Her  eyes  closed.  He  stooped  over  her  in  an  anguish. 
One  of  the  boat  officials  approached  him. 

"Madame  ferait  mieux  de  descendre,  monsieur.  La 
travers^e  ne  sera  pas  bonne." 

Delafield  explained  that  the  lady  must  have  air,  and 
was  a  good  sailor.  Then  he  pressed  into  the  man's 
hand  his  three  francs,  and  sent  him  for  brandy  and 

349 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

an  extra  covering  of  some  kind.  The  man  went  un- 
willingly. 

During  the  whole  bustle  of  departure,  Delafield  saw 
nothing  but  Julie's  helpless  and  motionless  form;  he 
heard  nothing  but  the  faint  words  by  which,  once  or 
twice,  she  tried  to  convey  to  him  that  she  was  not  un- 
conscious. 

The  brandy  came.  The  man  who  brought  it  again 
objected  to  Julie's  presence  on  deck.  Delafield  took  no 
heed.  He  was  absorbed  in  making  Julie  swallow  some 
of  the  brandy. 

At  last  they  were  off.  The  vessel  glided  slowly  out  of 
the  old  harbor,  and  they  were  immediately  in  rough 
water. 

Delafield  was  roused  by  a  peremptory  voice  at  his 
elbow. 

' '  This  lady  ought  not  to  stay  here,  sir.  There  is  plenty 
of  room  in  the  ladies'  cabin." 

Delafield  looked  up  and  recognized  the  captain  of  the 
boat,  the  same  man  who,  thirty-six  hours  before,  had 
shown  special  civilities  to  the  Duke  of  Chudleigh  and  his 
party. 

"Ah,  you  are  Captain  Whittaker,"  he  said. 

The  shrewd,  stout  man  who  had  accosted  him  raised 
his  eyebrows  in  astonishment. 

Delafield  drew  him  aside  a  moment.  After  a  short 
conversation  the  captain  lifted  his  cap  and  departed,  with 
a  few  words  to  the  subordinate  officer  who  had  drawn  his 
attention  to  the  matter.  Henceforward  they  were  un- 
molested, and  presently  the  officer  brought  a  pillow  and 
striped  blanket,  saying  they  might  be  useful  to  the  lady. 
Julie  was  soon  comfortably  placed,  lying  down  on  the 

350 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

seat  ander  the  wooden  shelter.  Delicacy  seemed  to  sug- 
gest that  her  companion  should  leave  her  to  herself. 

Jacob  walked  up  and  down  briskly,  trying  to  shake  off 
the  cold  which  benumbed  him.  Every  now  and  then 
he  paused  to  look  at  the  lights  on  the  receding  French 
coast,  at  its  gray  phantom  line  sweeping  southward 
under  the  stormy  moon,  or  disappearing  to  the  north  in 
clouds  of  rain.  There  was  a  roar  of  waves  and  a  dashing 
of  spray.  The  boat,  not  a  large  one,  was  pitching  heavi- 
ly, and  the  few  male  passengers  who  had  at  first  haunted 
the  deck  soon  disappeared. 

Delafield  hung  over  the  surging  water  in  a  strange  ex- 
altation, half  physical,  half  moral.  The  wild  salt  strength 
and  savor  of  the  sea  breathed  something  akin  to  that  pas- 
sionate force  of  will  which  had  impelled  him  to  the  en- 
terprise in  which  he  stood.  No  mere  man  of  the  world 
could  have  dared  it;  most  men  of  the  world,  as  he  was 
well  aware,  would  have  condemned  or  ridiculed  it.  But 
for  one  who  saw  life  and  conduct  sub  specie  ceternitatis  it 
had  seemed  natural  enough. 

The  wind  blew  fierce  and  cold.  He  made  his  way  back 
to  Julie's  side.  To  his  surprise,  she  had  raised  herself 
and  was  sitting  propped  up  against  the  comer  of  the  seat, 
her  veil  thrown  back. 

"You  are  better?"  he  said,  stooping  to  her,  so  as  to 
be  heard  against  the  boom  of  the  waves.  "This  rough 
weather  does  not  affect  you?" 

She  made  a  negative  sign.  He  drew  his  camp  -  stool 
beside  her.  Suddenly  she  asked  him  what  time  it  was. 
The  haggard  nobleness  of  her  pale  face  amid  the  folds  of 
black  veil,  the  absent  passion  of  the  eye,  thrilled  to  his 
heart.     Where  were  her  thoughts? 

351 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

*'  Nearly  four  o'clock."     He  drew  out  his  watch.  "You 

see  it  is  beginning  to  lighten." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  sky,  in  which  that  indefinable 
lifting  of  the  darkness  which  precedes  the  dawn  was  tak- 
ing place,  and  to  the  far  distances  of  sea,  where  a  sort 
of  livid  clarity  was  beginning  to  absorb  and  vanquish 
that  stormy  play  of  alternate  dark  and  moonlight  which 
had  prevailed  when  they  left  the  French  shore. 

He  had  hardly  spoken,  when  he  felt  that  her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him. 

To  look  at  his  watch,  he  had  thrown  open  his  long 
Newmarket  coat,  forgetting  that  in  so  doing  he  disclosed 
the  evening-dress  in  which  he  had  robed  himself  at  the 
Hotel  du  Rhin  for  his  friend's  dinner  at  the  Cafd  Gail- 
lard. 

He  hastily  rebuttoned  his  coat,  and  turned  his  face 
seaward  once  more.  But  he  heard  her  voice,  and  was 
obliged  to  come  close  to  her  that  he  might  catch  the 
words. 

"You  have  given  me  your  wraps,"  she  said,  with  diffi- 
culty.    "You  will  suffer." 

"Not  at  all.  You  have  your  own  rug,  and  one  that 
the  captain  provided.  I  keep  myself  quite  warm  with 
moving  about." 

There  was  a  pause.  His  mind  began  to  fill  with 
alarm.  He  was  not  of  the  men  who  act  a  part  with  ease; 
but,  having  got  through  so  far,  he  had  calculated  on  pre- 
serving his  secret. 

FHght  was  best,  and  he  was  just  turning  away  when  a 
gesture  of  hers  arrested  him.  Again  he  stooped  till  their 
faces  were  near  enough  to  let  her  voice  reach  him. 

"Why  are  you  in  evening-dress?" 
352 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  I  had  intended  to  dine  with  a  friend.  There  was  not 
time  to  change." 

"Then  you  did  not  mean  to  cross  to-night?" 

He  delayed  a  moment,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"Not  when  I  dressed  for  dinner,  but  some  sudden 
news  decided  me." 

Her  head  fell  back  wearily  against  the  support  behind 
it.  The  eyes  closed,  and  he,  thinking  she  would  perhaps 
sleep,  was  about  to  rise  from  his  seat,  when  the  pressure 
of  her  hand  upon  his  arm  detained  him.  He  sat  still  and 
the  hand  was  withdrawn. 

There  was  a  lessening  of  the  roar  in  their  ears.  Under 
the  lee  of  the  English  shore  the  wind  was  milder,  the 
"terror-music"  of  the  sea  less  triumphant.  And  over 
everything  was  stealing  the  first  discriminating  touch 
of  the  coming  light.  Her  face  was  clear  now;  and  Dela- 
field,  at  last  venturing  to  look  at  her,  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  open  again,  and  trembled  at  their  expression.  There 
was  in  them  a  wild  suspicion.  Secretly,  steadily,  he 
nerved  himself  to  meet  the  blow  that  he  foresaw, 

"Mr.  Delafield,  have  you  told  me  all  the  truth?" 

She  sat  up  as  she  spoke,  deadly  pale  but  rigid.  With 
an  impatient  hand  she  threw  off  the  wraps  which  had 
covered  her.     Her  face  commanded  an  answer, 

"Certainly  I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

"Was  it  the  whole  truth?  It  seems — it  seems  to  me 
that  you  were  not  prepared  yourself  for  this  journey — 
that  there  is  some  mystery — which  I  do  not  understand 
— which  I  resent!" 

"But  what  mystery?  When  I  saw  you,  I  of  course 
thought  of  Evelyn's  telegram." 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  telegram." 
*3  353 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

He  hesitated.  If  he  had  been  more  skilled  in  the 
little  falsehoods  of  every  day  he  would  simply  have 
said  that  he  had  left  it  at  the  hotel.  But  he  lost  his 
chance.  Nor  at  the  moment  did  he  clearly  perceive 
what  harm  it  would  do  to  show  it  to  her.  The  telegram 
was  in  his  pocket,  and  he  handed  it  to  her. 

There  was  a  dim  oil-lamp  in  the  shelter.  With  diffi- 
culty she  held  the  fluttering  paper  up  and  just  divined 
the  words.  Then  the  wind  carried  it  away  and  blew  it 
overboard.  He  rose  and  leaned  against  the  edge  of  the 
shelter,  looking  down  upon  her.  There  was  in  his  mind 
a  sense  of  something  solemn  approaching,  round  which 
this  sudden  lull  of  blast  and  wave  seemed  to  draw  a 
"wind-warm  space,"  closing  them  in. 

"Why  did  you  come  with  me?"  she  persisted,  in  an 
agitation  she  could  now  scarcely  control.  "  It  is  evident 
you  had  not  meant  to  travel.  You  have  no  luggage,  and 
you  are  in  evening-dress.  And  I  remember  now — you 
sent  two  letters  from  the  station!" 

"I  wished  to  be  your  escort," 

Her  gesture  was  almost  one  of  scorn  at  the  eva- 
sion. 

"Why  were  you  at  the  station  at  all?  Evelyn  had 
told  you  I  was  at  Bruges.  And — you  were  dining  out. 
I — I  can't  understand!" 

She  spoke  with  a  frowning  intensity,  a  strange  queen- 
liness,  in  which  was  neither  guilt  nor  confusion. 

A  voice  spoke  in  Delafield's  heart.     " Tell  her!"  it  said. 

He  bent  nearer  to  her. 

"Miss  Le  Breton,  with  what  friends  were  you  going 
to  stay  in  Paris?" 

She  breathed  quick. 

354 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"  I  am  not  a  school-girl,  I  think,  that  I  should  be  asked 
questions  of  that  kind." 

"But  on  your  answer  depends  mine." 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  His  gentle  kind- 
ness had  disappeared.  She  saw,  instead,  that  Jacob 
Delafield  whom  her  instinct  had  divined  from  the  be- 
ginning behind  the  modest  and  courteous  outer  man, 
the  Jacob  Delafield  of  whom  she  had  told  the  Duchess 
she  was  afraid. 

But  her  passion  swept  every  other  thought  out  of  its 
way.  With  dim  agony  and  rage  she  began  to  perceive 
that  she  had  been  duped. 

"Mr.  Delafield  " — she  tried  for  calm — "  I  don't  under- 
stand your  attitude,  but,  so  far  as  I  do  understand  it,  I 
find  it  intolerable.     If  you  have  deceived  me — " 

"I  have  not  deceived  you.  Lord  Lackington  is  dy- 
ing." 

"But  that  is  not  why  you  were  at  the  station,"  she 
repeated,  passionately.  "Why  did  you  meet  the  Eng- 
lish train?" 

Her  eyes,  clear  now  in  the  cold  light,  shone  upon  him 
imperiously. 

Again  the  inner  voice  said:  "Speak — get  away  from 
conventionalities.     Speak — soul  to  soul!" 

He  sat  down  once  more  beside  her.  His  gaze  sought 
the  ground.  Then,  with  sharp  suddenness,  he  looked  her 
in  the  face. 

"Miss  Le  Breton,  you  were  going  to  Paris  to  meet 
Major  Warkworth?" 

She  drew  back. 

"And  if  I  was?"  she  said,  with  a  wild  defiance. 

"I  had  to  prevent  it,  that  was  all." 

555 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

His  tone  was  calm  and  resolution  itself. 

"Who — who  gave  you  authority  over  me?" 

"One  may  save — even  by  violence.  You  were  too 
precious  to  be  allowed  to  destroy  yourself." 

His  look,  so  sad  and  strong,  the  look  of  a  deep  com- 
passion, fastened  itself  upon  her.  He  felt  himself,  in- 
deed, possessed  by  a  force  not  his  own,  that  same  force 
which  in  its  supreme  degree  made  of  St.  Francis  "the 
great  tamer  of  souls." 

"Who  asked  you  to  be  our  judge?  Neither  I  nor 
Major  Warkworth  owe  you  anything." 

"No.  But  I  owed  you  help  —  as  a  man  —  as  your 
friend.  The  truth  was  somehow  borne  in  upon  me.  You 
were  risking  your  honor — I  threw  myself  in  the  way." 

Every  word  seemed  to  madden  her. 

"What — what  could  you  know  of  the  circumstances?" 
cried  her  choked,  laboring  voice.  "It  is  unpardona- 
ble— an  outrage!  You  know  nothing  either  of  him  or 
of  me." 

She  clasped  her  hands  to  her  breast  in  a  piteous,  mag- 
nificent gesture,  as  though  she  were  defending  her  lover 
and  her  love. 

"  I  know  that  you  have  suffered  much,"  he  said,  drop- 
ping his  eyes  before  her,  "but  you  would  suffer  infinitely 
more  if — " 

"If  you  had  not  interfered."  Her  veil  had  fallen 
over  her  face  again.  She  flung  it  back  in  impatient 
despair.  "Mr.  Delafield,  I  can  do  without  your  anxi- 
eties." 

"But  not" — he  spoke  slowly — "without  your  own 
self-respect." 

V.    Jtilie's  face  trembled.     She  hid  it  in  her  hands. 

356 


"her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Go!"  she  said.     "Go!" 

He  went  to  the  farther  end  of  the  ship  and  stood  there 
motionless,  looking  towards  the  land  but  seeing  nothing. 
On  all  sides  the  darkness  was  lifting,  and  in  the  distance 
there  gleamed  already  the  whiteness  that  was  Dover. 
His  whole  being  was  shaken  with  that  experience  which 
comes  so  rarely  to  cumbered  and  superficial  men — the 
intimate  wrestle  of  one  personality  with  another.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  was  not  worthy  of  it. 

After  some  little  time,  when  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
lay  between  the  ship  and  Dover  pier,  he  went  back  to 
Julie. 

She  was  sitting  perfectly  still,  her  hands  clasped  in 
front  of  her,  her  veil  drawn  down. 

"May  I  say  one  word  to  you?"  he  said,  gently. 

She  did  not  speak. 

"It  is  this.  What  I  have  confessed  to  you  to-night 
is,  of  course,  buried  between  us.  It  is  as  though  it  had 
never  been  said.  I  have  given  you  pain.  I  ask  your 
pardon  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and,  at  the  same 
time" — his  voice  trembled — "I  thank  God  that  I  had 
the  courage  to  do  it!" 

She  threw  him  a  glance  that  showed  her  a  quivering 
lip  and  the  pallor  of  intense  emotion. 

"I  know  you  think  you  were  right,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  dull  and  strained,  "but  henceforth  we  can  only  be 
enemies.  You  have  tyrannized  over  me  in  the  name  of 
standards  that  you  revere  and  I  reject.  I  can  only  beg 
you  to  let  my  life  alone  for  the  future." 

He  said  nothing.  She  rose,  dizzily,  to  her  feet.  They 
were  rapidly  approaching  the  pier. 

With  the  cold  aloofness  of  one  who  feels  it  more  dig- 
357 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

nified  to  submit  than  to  struggle,  she  allowed  him  to 
assist  her  in  landing.  He  put  her  into  the  Victoria  train, 
travelling  himself  in  another  carriage. 

As  he  walked  beside  her  down  the  platform  of  Vic- 
toria Station,  she  said  to  him: 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  tell  Evelyn  that  I  have 
returned." 

"  I  go  to  her  at  once." 

She  suddenly  paused,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  looking 
helplessly  at  one  of  the  newspaper  placards  of  the  night 
before.  First  among  its  items  appeared:  "Critical  state 
of  Lord  Lackington." 

He  hardly  knew  how  far  she  would  allow  him  to 
have  any  further  communication  with  her,  but  her 
pale  exhaustion  made  it  impossible  not  to  ofFer  to  serve 
her. 

"It  would  be  early  to  go  for  news  now,"  he  said, 
gently.  "  It  would  disturb  the  house.  But  in  a  couple 
of  hours  from  now" — the  station  clock  pointed  to  6.15 — 
"if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  leave  the  morning  bulletin 
at  your  door." 

She  hesitated. 

"You  must  rest,  or  you  will  have  no  strength  for 
nursing,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  studiously  guard- 
ed tone.  "But  if  you  would  prefer  another  messen- 
ger — 

"I  have  none,"  and  she  raised  her  hand  to  her  brow 
in  mute,  unconscious  confession  of  an  utter  weakness  and 
bewilderment. 

"Then  let  me  go,"  he  said,  softly. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  so  physically  weary  as  to 
be  incapable  either  of  assent  or  resistance.     He  put  her 

35S 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

into  her  cab,  and  gave  the  driver  his  directions.  She 
looked  at  him  uncertainly.  But  he  did  not  offer  his  hand. 
From  those  blue  eyes  of  his  there  shot  out  upon  her  one 
piercing  glance — manly,  entreating,  sad.  He  lifted  his 
hat  and  was  gone. 


XX 

JACOB,  what  brings  you  back  so  soon?" 
The  Duchess  ran  into  the  room,  a  trim  little  fig- 
ure in  her  morning  dress  of  blue-and-white  cloth,  with 
her  small  spitz  leaping  beside  her. 

Delafield  advanced. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  got  your  telegram  yesterday, 
and  that  in  the  evening,  by  an  extraordinary  and  fortu- 
nate chance,  I  met  Miss  Le  Breton  in  Paris — " 

"You  met  Julie  in  Paris?"  echoed  the  Duchess,  in 
astonishment. 

"She  had  come  to  spend  a  couple  of  days  with  some 
friends  there  before  going  on  to  Bruges.  I  gave  her  the 
news  of  Lord  Lackington's  illness,  and  she  at  once  turned 
back.  She  was  much  fatigued  and  distressed,  and  the 
night  was  stormy.  I  put  her  into  the  sleeping-car,  and 
came  back  myself  to  see  if  I  could  be  any  assistance  to 
her.  And  at  Calais  I  was  of  some  use.  The  crossing 
was  very  rough." 

"Julie  was  in  Paris?"  repeated  the  Duchess,  as  though 
she  had  heard  nothing  else  of  what  he  had  been  saying. 

Her  eyes,  so  blue  and  large  in  her  small,  irregular  face, 
sought  those  of  her  cousin  and  endeavored  to  read  them. 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  a  rapid  change  of  plan.  And 
it  was  a  great  stroke  of  luck  my  meeting  her." 

"But  how — and  where?" 
360 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oh,  there  is  no  time  for  going  into  that,"  said  Dela- 
field,  impatiently.  "  But  I  knew  you  would  like  to  know 
that  she  was  here — after  your  message  yesterday.  We 
arrived  a  little  after  six  this  morning.  About  nine  I 
went  for  news  to  St.  James's  Square.  There  is  a  slight 
rally." 

"Did  you  see  Lord  Uredale?  Did  you  say  an}.i;hing 
about  Julie?"  asked  the  Duchess,  eagerly. 

"I  merely  asked  at  the  door,  and  took  the  bulletin  to 
Miss  Le  Breton.  Will  you  see  Uredale  and  arrange  it? 
I  gather  you  saw  him  yesterday." 

"By  all  means,"  said  the  Duchess,  musing.  "Oh, 
it  was  so  curious  yesterday.  Lord  Lackington  had 
just  told  them.  You  should  have  seen  those  two 
men." 

"The  sons?" 

The  Duchess  nodded. 

"They  don't  like  it.  They  were  as  stiff  as  pokers. 
But  they  will  do  absolutely  the  right  thing.  They  see 
at  once  that  she  must  be  provided  for.  And  when  he 
asked  for  her  they  told  me  to  telegraph,  if  I  could  find 
out  where  she  was.  Well,  of  all  the  extraordinary 
chances." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  oddly,  a  spot  of  red  on  either 
small  cheek.  Delafield  took  no  notice.  He  v/as  pacing 
up  and  down,  apparently  in  thought. 

"Suppose  you  take  her  there?"  he  said,  pausing 
abruptly  before  her. 

"To  St.  James's  Square?     What  did  you  tell  her?" 

"That  he  was  a  trifle  better,  and  that  you  would  come 
to  her." 

"Yes,  it  would  be  hard  for  her  to  go  alone,"  said  the 

361 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Duchess,  reflectively.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  "Only 
a  little  after  eleven.     Ring,  please,  Jacob." 

The  carriage  was  ordered.  Meanwhile  the  little  lady 
inquired  eagerly  after  her  Julie.  Had  she  been  exhaust- 
ed by  the  double  journey.'*  Was  she  alone  in  Paris,  or 
was  Madame  Bornier  with  her.'' 

Jacob  had  understood  that  Madame  Bornier  and  the 
little  girl  had  gone  straight  to  Bruges. 

The  Duchess  looked  down  and  then  looked  up. 

"Did — did  you  come  across  Major  Warkworth?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  for  a  moment  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
He  was  starting  for  Rome." 

The  Duchess  turned  away  as  though  ashamed  of  her 
question,  and  gave  her  orders  for  the  carriage.  Then 
her  attention  was  suddenly  drawn  to  her  cousin.  "How 
pale  you  look,  Jacob,"  she  said,  approaching  him. 
"Won't  you  have  something — some  wine?" 

Delafield  refused,  declaring  that  all  he  wanted  was  an 
hour  or  two's  sleep. 

"I  go  back  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  he  said,  as  he  pre- 
pared to  take  his  leave.  "Will  you  be  here  to-night  if 
I  look  in?" 

"Alack!  we  go  to  Scotland  to-night!  It  was  just  a 
piece  of  luck  that  you  found  me  this  morning.  Freddie  is 
fuming  to  get  away." 

Delafield  paused  a  moment.  Then  he  abruptly  shook 
hands  and  went. 

"He  wants  news  of  what  happens  at  St.  James's 
Square,"  thought  the  Duchess,  suddenly,  and  she  ran 
after  him  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  "Jacob!  If  you 
don't  mind  a  horrid  mess  to-night,  Freddie  and  I  shall  be 
dining  alone — of  course  we  must  have  something  to  eat. 

362 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Somewhere  about  eight.  Do  look  in.  There'll  be  a  cut- 
let— on  a  trunk — anyway." 

Delafield  laughed,  hesitated,  and  finally  accepted. 

The  Duchess  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  not  a 
little  puzzled  and  excited. 

"It's  very,  very  odd,"  she  said  to  herself.  "And  what 
is  the  matter  with  Jacob?" 

Half  an  hour  later  she  drove  to  the  splendid  house  in 
St.  James's  Square  where  Lord  Lackington  lay  dying. 

She  asked  for  Lord  Uredale,  the  eldest  son,  and 
waited  in  the  library  till  he  came. 

He  was  a  tall,  squarely  built  man,  with  fair  hair  al- 
ready gray,  and  somewhat  absent  and  impassive  man- 
ners. 

At  sight  of  him  the  Duchess's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  hurried  to  him,  her  soft  nature  dissolved  in  sym- 
pathy. 

"How  is  your  father?" 

"A  trifle  easier,  though  the  doctors  say  there  is  no 
real  improvement.  But  he  is  quite  conscious — knows  us 
all.     I  have  just  been  reading  him  the  debate." 

"  You  told  me  yesterday  he  had  asked  for  Miss  Le 
Breton,"  said  the  Duchess,  raising  herself  on  tiptoe  as 
though  to  bring  her  low  tones  closer  to  his  ear.  "She's 
here — in  town,  I  mean.  She  came  back  from  Paris  last 
night." 

Lord  Uredale  showed  no  emotion  of  any  kind.  Emo- 
tion was  not  in  his  line. 

"Then  my  father  would  like  to  see  her,"  he  said,  in  a 
dry,  ordinary  voice,  which  jarred  upon  the  sentimental 
Duchess. 

"•—0  36,3 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

'When  shall  I  bring  her?" 

"  He  is  now  comfortable  and  resting.  If  you  are  free — " 

The  Duchess  replied  that  she  would  go  to  Heribert 
Street  at  once.  As  Lord  Uredale  took  her  to  her  car- 
riage a  young  man  ran  down  the  steps  hastily,  raised  his 
hat,  and  disappeared. 

Lord  Uredale  explained  that  he  was  the  husband  of 
the  famous  young  beauty,  Mrs.  Delaray,  whose  portrait 
Lord  Lackington  had  been  engaged  upon  at  the  time  of 
his  seizure.  Having  been  all  his  life  a  skilful  artist,  a 
man  of  fashion,  and  a  harmless  haunter  of  lovely  women, 
Lord  Lackington,  as  the  Duchess  knew,  had  all  but  com- 
pleted a  gallery  of  a  hundred  portraits,  representing  the 
beauty  of  the  reign.  Mrs.  Delaray's  would  have  been 
the  hundredth  in  a  series  of  which  Mrs.  Norton  was  the 
first. 

"  He  has  been  making  arrangements  with  the  husband 
to  get  it  finished,"  said  Lord  Uredale;  "it  has  been  on 
his  mind." 

The  Duchess  shivered  a  little. 

"He  knows  he  won't  finish  it?" 

"Quite  well." 

"And  he  still  thinks  of  those  things?" 

"Yes — or  politics,"  said  Lord  Uredale,  smiling  faintly. 
"I  have  written  to  Mr.  Montresor.  There  are  two  or 
three  points  my  father  wants  to  discuss  with  him." 

"And  he  is  not  depressed,  or  troubled  about  himself?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  will  be  grateful  if  you  will 
bring  him  Miss  Le  Breton." 

"Julie,  my  darling,  are  you  fit  to  come  with  me?" 
The  Duchess  held  her  friend  in  her  arms,  soothing  and 

364 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

caressing  her.  How  forlorn  was  the  little  house,  under 
its  dust-sheets,  on  this  rainy,  spring  morning!  And  Julie, 
amid  the  dismantled  drawing-room,  stood  spectrally 
white  and  still,  listening,  with  scarcely  a  word  in  re- 
ply, to  the  affection,  or  the  pity,  or  the  news  which  the 
Duchess  poured  out  upon  her. 

"Shall  we  go  now?     I  am  quite  ready." 

And  she  withdrew  herself  from  the  loving  grasp  which 
held  her,  and  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves. 

"  You  ought  to  be  in  bed,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  Those 
night  journeys  are  too  abominable.  Even  Jacob  looks 
a  wreck.  But  what  an  extraordinary  chance,  Julie,  that 
Jacob  should  have  found  you!  How  did  you  come 
across  each  other?" 

"At  the  Nord  Station,"  said  Julie,  as  she  pinned  her 
veil  before  the  glass  over  the  mantel-piece. 

Some  instinct  silenced  the  Duchess.  She  asked  no 
more  questions,  and  they  started  for  St.  James's  Square. 

"You  won't  mind  if  I  don't  talk?"  said  Julie,  leaning 
back  and  closing  her  eyes.  "  I  seem  still  to  have  the  sea 
in  my  ears." 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  tenderly,  clasping  her  hand 
close,  and  the  carriage  rolled  along.  But  just  before  they 
reached  St.  James's  Square,  Julie  hastily  raised  the  fin- 
gers which  held  her  own  and  kissed  them. 

"Oh,  Julie,"  said  the  Duchess,  reproachfully,  "  I  don't 
like  you  to  do  that!" 

She  flushed  and  frowned.  It  was  she  who  ought  to 
pay  such  acts  of  homage,  not  Julie. 

"Father,  Miss  Le  Breton  is  here." 
"Let  her  come  in,  Jack — and  the  Duchess,  too." 

365 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Lord  Uredale  went  back  to  the  door.  Two  figures 
came  noiselessly  into  the  room,  the  Duchess  in  front, 
with  Julie's  hand  in  hers. 

Lord  Lackington  was  propped  up  in  bed,  and  breath- 
ing fast.     But  he  smiled  as  they  approached  him. 

"This  is  good-bye,  dear  Duchess,"  he  said,  in  a  whis- 
per, as  she  bent  over  him.  Then,  with  a  spark  of  his  old 
gayety  in  the  eyes,  "I  should  be  a  cur  to  grumble.  Life 
has  been  very  agreeable.     Ah,  Julie!" 

Julie  dropped  gently  on  her  knees  beside  him  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  his  arm.  At  the  mention  of  her  namie 
the  old  man's  face  had  clouded  as  though  the  thoughts 
she  called  up  had  suddenly  rebuked  his  words  to  the 
Duchess.  He  feebly  moved  his  hands  towards  hers,  and 
there  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  few  moments. 

"Uredale!" 

"Yes,  father." 

"This  is  Rose's  daughter." 

His  eyes  lifted  themselves  to  those  of  his  son. 

"I  know,  father.  If  Miss  Le  Breton  will  allow  us,  we 
will  do  what  we  can  to  be  of  service  to  her." 

Bill  Chantrey,  the  younger  brother,  gravely  nodded 
assent.  They  were  both  men  of  middle  age,  the  younger 
over  forty.  They  did  not  resemble  their  father,  nor  was 
there  any  trace  in  either  of  them  of  his  wayward  fas- 
cination. They  were  a  pair  of  well-set-up,  well-bred 
Englishmen,  surprised  at  nothing,  and  quite  incapable 
of  showing  any  emotion  in  public;  yet  just  and  kindly 
men.  As  Julie  entered  the  house  they  had  both  solemnly 
shaken  hands  with  her,  in  a  manner  which  showed  at 
once  their  determination,  as  far  as  they  were  concerned, 
to  avoid  anything  sentimental  or  in  the  nature  of  a  scene, 

366 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

and  their  readiness  to  do  what  could  be  rightly  demanded 
of  them. 

Julie  hardly  listened  to  Lord  Uredale's  little  speech. 
She  had  eyes  and  ears  only  for  her  grandfather.  As  she 
knelt  beside  him,  her  face  bowed  upon  his  hand,  the  ice 
within  her  was  breaking  up,  that  dumb  and  straitening 
anguish  in  which  she  had  lived  since  that  moment  at  the 
Nord  Station  in  which  she  had  grasped  the  meaning 
and  the  implications  of  Delafield's  hurried  words.  Was 
everything  to  be  sv/ept  away  from  her  at  once  —  her 
lover,  and  now  this  dear  old  man,  to  whom  her  heart, 
crushed  and  bleeding  as  it  was,  yearned  with  ail  its 
strength  ? 

Lord  Lackington  supposed  that  she  was  weeping. 

"Don't  grieve,  my  dear,"  he  murmured.  "It  must 
come  to  an  end  some  time — '  cette  charmanie  promenade 
d,  tr avers  la  rialiief  " 

And  he  smiled  at  her,  agreeably  vain  to  the  last  of  that 
French  accent  and  that  French  memorj'-  which  —  so  his 
look  implied — they  two  could  appreciate,  each  in  the 
other.     Then  he  turned  to  the  Duchess. 

"Duchess,  you  knew  this  secret  before  me.  But  I 
forgive  you,  and  thank  you.  You  have  been  very  good 
to  Rose's  child.  Julie  has  told  me — and — I  have  ob- 
served— " 

"Oh,  dear  Lord  Lackington!"  Evelyn  bent  over  him. 
"Trust  her  to  me,"  she  said,  with  a  lovely  yearning  to 
comfort  and  cheer  him  breathing  from  her  little  face. 

He  smiled. 

"To  you— and— " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

After  a  pause   he  made  a  little  gesture  of  farewell 

367 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

which  the  Duchess  understood.     She  kissed  his  hand  and 

turned  away  weeping. 

"Nurse — where  is  nurse?"  said  Lord  Lackington. 

Both  the  nurse  and  the  doctor,  who  had  withdrawn  a 
little  distance  from  the  family  group,  came  forward. 

"Doctor,  give  me  some  strength,"  said  the  laboring 
voice,  not  without  its  old  wilfulness  of  accent. 

He  moved  his  arm  towards  the  young  homoeopath, 
who  injected  strychnine.     Then  he  looked  at  the  nurse. 

"Brandy — and — lift  me." 

All  was  done  as  he  desired. 

"Now  go,  please,"  he  said  to  his  sons.  " I  wish  to  be 
left  with  Julie." 

For  some  moments,  that  seemed  interminable  to 
Julie,  Lord  Lackington  lay  silent.  A  feverish  flush,  a 
revival  of  life  in  the  black  eyes  had  followed  on  the 
administration  of  the  two  stimulants.  He  seemed  to 
be  gathering  all  his  forces. 

At  last  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "You  shouldn't 
be  alone,"  he  said,  abruptly. 

His  expression  had  grown  anxious,  even  imperious. 
She  felt  a  vague  pang  of  dread  as  she  tried  to  assure  him 
that  she  had  kind  friends,  and  that  her  work  would  be 
her  resource. 

Lord  Lackington  frowned. 

"That  won't  do,"  he  said,  almost  vehemently.  "You 
have  great  talents,  but  you  are  weak — you  are  a  woman 
— you  must  marry." 

Julie  stared  at  him,  whiter  even  than  when  she  had 
entered  his  room — helpless  to  avert  what  she  began  to 
foresee. 

368 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Jacob  Delafield  is  devoted  to  you.  You  should  mar- 
ry him,  dear — you  should  marry  him  " 

The  room  seemed  to  swim  around  her.  But  his  face 
was  still  plain — the  purpled  lips  and  cheeks,  the  urgency 
in  the  eyes,  as  of  one  pursued  by  an  overtaking  force,  the 
magnificent  brow,  the  crown  of  white  hair. 

She  summoned  all  her  powers  and  told  him  hurriedly 
that  he  was  mistaken — entirely  mistaken.  Mr.  Delafield , 
had,  indeed,  proposed  to  her,  but,  apart  from  her  own 
unwillingness,  she  had  reason  to  know  that  his  feelings 
towards  her  were  now  entirely  changed.  He  neither 
loved  her  nor  thought  well  of  her. 

Lord  Lackington  lay  there,  obstinate,  patient,  incred- 
ulous.    At  last  he  interrupted  her. 

"You  make  yourself  believe  these  things.  But  they 
are  not  true.  Delafield  is  attached  to  you.  I  know 
it." 

He  nodded  to  her  with  his  masterful,  affectionate 
look.  And  before  she  could  find  words  again  he  had 
resumed. 

"  He  could  give  you  a  great  position.  Don't  despise  it. 
We  English  big- wigs  have  a  good  time." 

A  ghostly,  humorous  ray  shot  out  upon  her;  then  he 
felt  for  her  hand. 

"Dear  Julie,  why  won't  you?" 

"If  you  were  to  ask  him,"  she  cried,  in  despair,  "he 
would  tell  you  as  I  do." 

And  across  her  miserable  thoughts  there  flashed  two 
mingled  images — Warkworth  waiting,  waiting  for  her  at 
the  Sceaux  Station,  and  that  look  of  agonized  reproach 
in  Delafield's  haggard  face  as  he  had  parted  from  her  in 
the  dawn  of  this  strange,  this  incredible  day. 
24  369 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

And  here  beside  her,  with  the  tyranny  of  the  dying, 
this  dear  babbler  wandered  on  in  broken  words,  with 
painful  breath,  pleading,  scolding,  counselling.  She  felt 
that  he  was  exhausting  himself.  She  begged  him  to  let 
her  recall  nurse  and  doctor.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
when  he  could  no  longer  speak,  he  clung  to  her  hand,  his 
gaze  solemnly,  insistently,  fixed  upon  her. 

Her  spirit  writhed  and  rebelled.  But  she  was  helpless 
in  the  presence  of  this  mortal  weakness,  this  affection, 
half  earthly,  half  beautiful,  on  its  knees  before  her. 

A  thought  struck  her.  Why  not  content  him  ?  What- 
ever pledges  she  gave  would  die  with  him.  What  did  it 
matter.?  It  was  cruelty  to  deny  him  the  words  —  the 
mere  empty  words — he  asked  of  her. 

"  I — I  would  do  anything  to  please  you!"  she  said,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  uncontrollable  tears,  as  she  laid  her 
head  down  beside  him  on  the  pillow.  "  If  he  were  to  ask 
me  again,  of  course,  for  your  sake,  I  would  consider  it 
once  more.     Dear,  dear  friend,  won't  that  satisfy  you?" 

Lord  Lackington  was  silent  a  few  moments,  then  he 
smiled. 

"That's  a  promise?" 

She  raised  herself  and  looked  at  him,  conscious  of  a 
sick  movement  of  terror.  What  was  there  in  his  mind, 
still  so  quick,  fertile,  ingenious,  under  the  very  shadow 
of  death  ? 

He  waited  for  her  answer,  feebly  pressing  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  faintly,  and  once  more  hid  her  face 
beside  him. 

Then,  for  some  little  time,  the  dying  man  neither 
stirred  nor  spoke.     At  last  Julie  heard; 

"  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  death — that  was  in  middle  life. 
37° 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Every  night  it  was  a  torment.  But  now,  for  many  years, 
I  have  not  been  afraid  at  all.  .  .  .  Byron — Lord  Byron — 
said  to  me,  once,  he  would  not  change  anything  in  his 
life;  but  he  would  have  preferred  not  to  have  lived  at  all. 
I  could  not  say  that.  I  have  enjoyed  it  all — being  an 
Englishman,  and  an  English  peer — pictures,  politics,  so- 
ciety— everything.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  fair.  There  are 
so  many  poor  devils." 

Julie  pressed  his  hand  to  her  lips.  But  in  her  thoughts 
there  rose  the  sudden,  sharp  memory  of  her  mother's 
death  —  of  that  bitter  stoicism  and  abandonment  in 
which  the  younger  life  had  closed,  in  comparison  with 
this  peace,  this  complacency. 

Yet  it  was  a  complacency  rich  in  sweetness.  His  next 
words  were  to  assure  her  tenderly  that  he  had  made  pro- 
vision for  her.  "  Uredale  and  Bill — will  see  to  it.  They're 
good  fellows.  Often  —  they've  thought  me  —  a  pretty 
fool.     But  they've  been  kind  to  me — always." 

Then,  after  another  interval,  he  lifted  himself  in  bed, 
with  more  strength  than  she  had  supposed  he  could 
exert,  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  asked  her,  in  the 
same  painful  whisper,  whether  she  believed  in  another 
life. 

"Yes,"  said  Julie.  But  her  shrinking,  perfunctory 
manner  evidently  distressed  him.  He  resumed,  with  a 
furrowed  brow: 

"You  ought.       It  is  good  for  vis  to  believe  it." 

"I  must  hope,  at  any  rate,  that  I  shall  see  you  again 
• — and  mamma,"  she  said,  smiling  on  him  through  her 
tears. 

"I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like,"  he  replied,  after  a 
pause.     His  tone  and  look  implied  a  freakish,  a  whim- 

371 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

sical  curiosity,  yet  full  of  charm.  Then,  motioning  to 
her  to  come  nearer,  and  speaking  into  her  ear: 

"Your  poor  mother,  Julie,  was  never  happy — never! 
There  must  be  laws,  you  see — and  churches — and  re- 
ligious customs.  It's  because  —  we're  made  of  such 
wretched  stuff.  My  wife,  when  she  died  —  made  me 
promise  to  continue  going  to  church  —  and  praying. 
And  —  without  it — I  should  have  been  a  bad  man. 
Though  I've  had  plenty  of  sceptical  thoughts — plenty. 
Your  poor  parents  rebelled — against  all  that.  They  suf- 
ered  —  they  suffered.  But  you'll  make  up  —  you're  a 
noble  woman — you'll  make  up." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head.  She  offered  no  reply; 
but  through  the  inner  mind  there  rushed  the  incidents, 
passions,  revolts  of  the  preceding  days. 

But  for  that  strange  chance  of  Delafield's  appearance 
in  her  path — a  chance  no  more  intelligible  to  her  now, 
after  the  pondering  of  several  feverish  hours,  than  it  had 
been  at  the  moment  of  her  first  suspicion — where  and 
what  would  she  be  now?  A  dishonored  woman,  per- 
haps, with  a  life-secret  to  keep ;  cut  off,  as  her  mother  had 
been,  from  the  straight-living,  law-abiding  world. 

The  touch  of  the  old  man's  hand  upon  her  hair  roused 
in  her  a  first  recoil,  a  first  shattering  doubt  of  the  im- 
pulse which  had  carried  her  to  Paris.  Since  Delafield 
left  her  in  the  early  dawn  she  had  been  pouring  out  a 
broken,  passionate  heart  in  a  letter  to  Warkworth.  No 
misgivings  while  she  was  writing  it  as  to  the  all-sufficing 
legitimacy  of  love! 

But  here,  in  this  cold  neighborhood  of  the  grave — 
brought  back  to  gaze  in  spirit  on  her  mother's  tragedy 
— she   shrank,  she   trembled.      Her  proud  intelligence 

372 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

denied  the  stain,  and  bade  her  hate  and  despise  her 
rescuer.  And,  meanwhile,  things  also  inherited  and  in- 
born, the  fruit  of  a  remoter  ancestry,  rising  from  the 
dimmest  and  deepest  caverns  of  personality,  silenced  the 
clamor  of  the  naturalist  mind.  One  moment  she  felt  her- 
self seized  with  terror  lest  anything  should  break  down 
the  veil  between  her  real  self  and  this  unsuspecting  ten- 
derness of  the  dying  man;  the  next  she  rose  in  revolt 
against  her  own  fear.  Was  she  to  find  herself,  after  all, 
a  mere  weak  penitent — meanly  grateful  to  Jacob  Dela- 
field?  Her  heart  cried  out  to  Warkworth  in  a  protest- 
ing anguish. 

So  absorbed  in  thought  was  she  that  she  did  not 
notice  how  long  the  silence  had  lasted. 

"  He  seems  to  be  sleeping,"  said  a  low  voice  beside  her. 

She  looked  up  to  see  the  doctor,  with  Lord  Uredale. 
Gently  releasing  herself,  she  kissed  Lord  Lackington's 
forehead,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

Suddenly  the  patient  opened  his  eyes,  and  as  he 
seemed  to  become  aware  of  the  figures  beside  him,  he 
again  lifted  himself  in  bed,  and  a  gleam  most  animated, 
most  vivacious,  passed  over  his  features. 

"  Brougham's  not  asked,"  he  said,  with  a  little  chuckle 
of  amusement.     "Lsn't  it  a  joke?" 

The  two  men  beside  him  looked  at  each  other.  Lord 
Uredale  approached  the  bed. 

"Not  asked  to  what,  father?"  he  said,  gently. 

"Why,  to  the  Queen's  fancy  ball,  of  course,"  said  Lord 
Lackington,  still  smiling.  "Such  a  to-do!  All  the 
elderly  sticks  practising  minuets  for  their  lives!" 

A  voluble  flow  of  talk  followed — hardly  intelligible. 
The  words  "Melbourne"  and  "Lady  Holland"  emerged 

373 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

— the  fragment,  apparently,  of  a  dispute  with  the  latter, 
in  which  "Allen"  intervened — the  names  of  "Palmer- 
ston"  and  "that  dear  chap,  Villiers." 

Lord  Uredale  sighed.  The  young  doctor  looked  at 
him  interrogatively. 

"He  is  thinking  of  his  old  friends,"  said  the  son. 
"That  was  the  Queen's  ball,  I  imagine,  of  '42.  I  have 
often  heard  him  describe  my  mother's  dress." 

But  while  he  was  speaking  the  fitful  energy  died  away. 
The  old  man  ceased  to  talk;  his  eyelids  fell.  But  the 
smile  still  lingered  about  his  mouth,  and  as  he  settled 
himself  on  his  pillows,  like  one  who  rests,  the  spectators 
were  struck  by  the  urbane  and  distinguished  beauty  of 
his  aspect.  The  purple  flush  had  died  again  into  mortal 
pallor.  Illness  had  masked  or  refined  the  weakness  of 
mouth  and  chin;  the  beautiful  head  and  countenance, 
with  their  characteristic  notes  of  youth,  impetuosity,  a 
kind  of  gay  detachment,  had  never  been  more  beautiful. 

The  young  doctor  looked  stealthily  from  the  recum- 
bent figure  to  the  tall  and  slender  woman  standing 
absorbed  and  grief-stricken  beside  the  bed.  The  like- 
ness was  as  evident  to  him  as  it  had  been,  in  the  winter, 
to  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury. 

As  he  was  escorting  her  down-stairs,  Lord  Uredale 
said  to  his  companion,  "Foster  thinks  he  may  still  live 
twenty-four  hours." 

"If  he  asks  for  me  again,"  said  Julie,  now  shrouded 
once  more  behind  a  thick,  black  veil,  "you  will  send?" 

He  gravely  assented. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  stiffness — ■ 
did  it  unconsciously  mark  the  difference  between  her  and 

374 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

his  legitimate  kindred? — "that  my  sister  Lady  Blanche 
and  her  daughter  cannot  be  with  us." 

"They  are  in  Italy?" 

"At  Florence.  My  niece  has  had  an  attack  of  diph- 
theria. She  could  neither  travel  nor  could  her  mother 
leave  her." 

Then  pausing  in  the  hall,  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  and 
with  some  embarrassment: 

"My  father  has  told  you,  I  believe,  of  the  addition  he 
has  made  to  his  will?" 

Julie  drew  back. 

"  I  neither  asked  for  it  nor  desired  it,"  she  said,  in  her 
coldest  and  clearest  voice. 

"  That  I  quite  understand,"  said  Lord  Uredale.  "  But 
— you  cannot  hurt  him  by  refusing." 

She  hesitated. 

"No.  But  afterwards — I  must  be  free  to  follow  my 
own  judgment." 

"  We  cannot  take  what  does  not  belong  to  us,"  he  said, 
with  some  sharpness.  "  My  brother  and  I  are  named  as 
your  trustees.     Believe  me,  we  will  do  our  best." 

Meanwhile  the  younger  brother  had  come  out  of  the 
library  to  bid  her  farewell.  She  felt  that  she  was  under 
critical  observation,  though  both  pairs  of  gray  eyes  re- 
frained from  any  appearance  of  scrutiny.  Her  pride 
came  to  her  aid,  and  she  did  not  shrink  from  the  short 
conversation  which  the  two  brothers  evidently  desired. 
When  it  was  over,  and  the  brothers  returned  to  the  hall 
after  putting  her  into  the  Duchess's  carriage,  the  younger 
said  to  the  elder* 

"She  can  behave  herself,  Johnnie." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  with  their  hands  in  their 

375 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

pockets.  A  little  nod  passed  between  them — an  augur- 
like acceptance  of  this  new  and  irregular  member  of  the 
family, 

"  Yes,  she  has  excellent  manners,"  said  Uredale.  "  And 
really,  after  the  tales  Lady  Henry  has  been  spreading — 
that's  something!" 

"Oh,  I  always  thought  Lady  Henry  an  old  cat,"  said 
Bill,  tranquilly.     "That  don't  matter." 

The  Chantrey  brothers  had  not  been  among  Lady 
Henry's  habitues.  In  her  eyes,  they  were  the  dull  sons  of 
an  agreeable  father.  They  were  humorously  aware  of  it, 
and  bore  her  little  malice. 

"No,"  said  Uredale,  raising  his  eyebrows;  "but  the 
*  affaire  Warkworth'  ?  If  there's  any  truth  in  what  one 
hears,  that's  deuced  unpleasant." 

Bill  Chantrey  whistled. 

"  It's  hard  luck  on  that  poor  child  Aileen  that  it  should 
be  her  own  cousin  interfering  with  her  preserves.  By- 
the-way  " — he  stooped  to  look  at  the  letters  on  the  hall 
table  —  "do  you  see  there's  a  letter  for  father  from 
Blanche?  And  in  a  letter  I  got  from  her  by  the  same 
post,  she  says  that  she  has  told  him  the  whole  story. 
According  to  her,  Aileen's  too  ill  to  be  thwarted,  and  she 
wants  the  governor  to  see  the  guardians.  I  say, 
Johnnie  " — he  looked  at  his  brother — "we'll  not  trouble 
the  father  with  it  now?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Uredale,  with  a  sigh.  "I  saw 
one  of  the  trustees — Jack  Underwood — yesterday.  He 
told  me  Blanche  and  the  child  were  more  infatuated  than 
ever.  Very  likely  what  one  hears  is  a  pack  of  lies.  If 
not,  I  hope  this  woman  will  have  the  good  taste  to  drop 
it.     Father  has  charged  me  to  write  to  Blanche  and  tell 

376 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

her  the  whole  story  of  poor  Rose,  and  of  this  girl's  reveal- 
ing herself.  Blanche,  it  appears,  is  just  as  much  in  the 
dark  as  we  were." 

"If  this  gossip  has  got  round  to  her,  her  feeHngs  will 
be  mixed.  Oh,  well,  I've  great  faith  in  the  money," 
said  Bill  Chantrey,  carelessly,  as  they  began  to  mount 
the  stairs  again.  "  It  sounds  disgusting;  but  if  the  child 
wants  him  I  suppose  she  must  have  him.  And,  anyway, 
the  man's  off  to  Africa  for  a  twelvemonth  at  least.  Miss 
Le  Breton  will  have  time  to  forget  him.  One  can't  say 
that  either  he  or  she  has  behaved  with  delicacy  —  un- 
less, indeed,  she  knew  nothing  of  Aileen,  which  is  quite 
probable." 

"Well,  don't  ask  me  to  tackle  her,"  said  Uredale.  "  She 
has  the  ways  of  an  empress." 

Bill  Chantrey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "And,  by 
George!  she  looks  as  if  she  could  fall  in  love,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "Magnificent  eyes,  Johnnie.  I  propose  to  make 
a  study  of  our  new  niece." 

"Lord  Uredale!"  said  a  voice  on  the  stairs. 

The  young  doctor  descended  rapidly  to  meet  them. 

"His  lordship  is  asking  for  some  one,"  he  said.  "He 
seems  excited.     But  I  cannot  catch  the  name." 

Lord  Uredale  ran  up-stairs. 

Later  in  the  day  a  man  emerged  from  Lackington 
House  and  walked  rapidly  towards  the  Mall.  It  was 
Jacob  Delafield. 

He  passed  across  the  Mall  and  into  St.  James's  Park. 
There  he  threw  himself  on  the  first  seat  he  saw,  in  an 
absorption  so  deep  that  it  excited  the  wondering  notice 
of  more  than  one  passer-by. 

377 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

After  about  half  an  hour  he  roused  himself,  and 
walked,  still  in  the  same  brown  study,  to  his  lodgings  in 
Jermyn  Street.  There  he  found  a  letter  which  he 
eagerly  opened. 

"  Dear  Jacob, — Julie  came  back  this  morning  about  one 
o'clock.  I  waited  for  her — and  at  first  she  seemed  quite 
calm  and  composed.  But  suddenly,  as  I  was  sitting  be- 
side her,  talking,  she  fainted  away  in  her  chair,  and  I  was 
terribly  alarmed.  We  sent  for  a  doctor  at  once.  He  shakes 
his  head  over  her,  and  says  there  are  all  the  signs  of  a  severe 
strain  of  body  and  mind.  No  wonder,  indeed — our  poor 
Julie!  Oh,  how  I  loathe  some  people!  Well,  there  she  is 
in  bed,  Madame  Bornier  away,  and  everybody.  I  simply 
can't  go  to  Scotland.  But  Freddie  is  just  mad.  Do,  Jacob, 
there's  a  dear,  go  and  dine  with  him  to-night  and  cheer  him 
up.  He  vows  he  won't  go  north  without  me.  Perhaps  I'll 
come  to-morrow,  I  could  no  more  leave  Julie  to-night 
than  fly. 

"She'll  be  ill  for  weeks.  What  I  ought  to  do  is  to  take 
her  abroad.  She's  very  dear  and  good;  but,  oh,  Jacob,  as 
she  lies  there  I  feel  her  heart's  broken.  And  it's  not  Lord 
Lackington.  Oh  no!  though  I'm  sure  she  loved  him.  Do 
go  to  Freddie,  there's  a  dear." 

"No,  that  I  won't!"  said  Delafield,  with  a  laugh  that 
choked  him,  as  he  threw  the  letter  down. 

He  tried  to  write  an  answer,  but  could  not  achieve 
even  the  simplest  note.  Then  he  began  a  pacing  of  his 
room,  which  lasted  till  he  dropped  into  his  chair,  worn 
out  with  the  sheer  physical  exhaustion  of  the  night  and 
day.  When  his  servant  came  in  he  found  his  master  in 
a  heavy  sleep.  And,  at  Crowborough  House,  the  Duke 
dined  and  fumed  alone. 

378 


XXI 

WHY  does  any  one  stay  in  England  who  can  make 
the  trip  to  Paradise?"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she 
leaned  lazily  back  in  the  corner  of  the  boat  and  trailed 
her  fingers  in  the  waters  of  Como. 

It  was  a  balmy  April  afternoon,  and  she  and  Julie  were 
floating  through  a  scene  enchanted,  incomparable. 
When  spring  descends  upon  the  shores  of  the  Lago  di 
Como,  she  brings  with  her  all  the  graces,  all  the  beauties, 
all  the  fine,  delicate,  and  temperate  delights  of  which 
earth  and  sky  are  capable,  and  she  pour?  them  forth  upon 
a  land  of  perfect  loveliness.  Around  the  shores  of  other 
lakes — Maggiore,  Lugano,  Garda — blue  mountains  rise, 
and  the  vineyards  spread  their  green  and  dazzling  ter- 
races to  the  sun.  Only  Como  can  show  in  unmatched 
union  a  main  composition,  incomparably  grand  and  har- 
monious, combined  with  every  jewelled,  or  glowing,  or 
exquisite  detail.  Nowhere  do  the  mountains  lean  tow- 
ards each  other  in  such  an  ordered  splendor  as  that  which 
bends  round  the  northern  shores  of  Como.  Nowhere  do 
buttressed  masses  rise  behind  each  other,  to  right  and 
left  of  a  blue  water-way,  in  lines  statelier  or  more  noble 
than  those  kept  by  the  mountains  of  the  Lecco  Lake,  as 
they  marshal  themselves  on  either  hand,  along  the  ap- 
proaches to  Lombardy  and  Venetia;  bearing  aloft,  as 
though  on  the  purple  pillars  of  some  majestic  gateway, 
II.— ^o  379 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  great  curtain  of  dazzling  cloud  which,  on  a  sunny 
day,  hangs  over  the  Brescian  plain — a  glorious  drop- 
scene,  interposed  between  the  dwellers  on  the  Como 
Mountains,  and  those  marble  towns,  Brescia,  Verona, 
Padua,  which  thread  the  way  to  Venice. 

And  within  this  divine  frame-work,  between  the  glist- 
ening snows  which  still,  in  April,  crown  and  glorify  the 
heights,  and  those  reflections  of  them  which  lie  encalmed 
in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  lake,  there's  not  a  foot  of  past- 
ure, not  a  shelf  of  vineyard,  not  a  slope  of  forest  where 
the  spring  is  not  at  work,  dyeing  the  turf  with  gentians, 
starring  it  with  narcissuses,  or  drawing  across  it  the  first 
golden  net-work  of  the  chestnut  leaves;  where  the  mere 
emerald  of  the  grass  is  not  in  itself  a  thing  to  refresh  the 
very  springs  of  being;  where  the  peach-blossom  and  the 
wild-cherry  and  the  olive  are  not  perpetually  weaving 
patterns  on  the  blue,  which  ravish  the  very  heart  out  of 
your  breast.  And  already  the  roses  are  beginning  to 
pour  over  the  walls;  the  wistaria  is  climbing  up  the 
cypresses;  a  pomp  of  camellias  and  azaleas  is  in  all  the 
gardens;  while  in  the  grassy  bays  that  run  up  into  the 
hills  the  primrose  banks  still  keep  their  sweet  austerity, 
and  the  triumph  of  spring  over  the  just  banished  winter 
is  still  sharp  and  new. 

And  in  the  heart  and  sense  of  Julie  Le  Breton,  as  she 
sat  beside  the  Duchess,  listening  absently  to  the  talk  of 
the  old  boatman,  who,  with  his  oars  resting  idly  in  his 
hands,  was  chattering  to  the  ladies,  a  renewing  force 
akin  to  that  of  the  spring  was  also  at  its  healing  and  life- 
giving  work.  She  had  still  the  delicate,  tremulous  look  of 
one  recovering  from  a  sore  wrestle  with  physical  ill;  but 
in  her  aspect  there  were  suggestions  more  intimate,  more 

380 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

moving  than  this.  Those  who  have  lain  down  and  risen 
up  with  pain;  those  who  have  been  face  to  face  with 
passion  and  folly  and  self -judgment;  those  who  have 
been  forced  to  seek  with  eagerness  for  some  answer  to 
those  questions  which  the  majority  of  us  never  ask, 
"Whither  is  my  life  leading  me — and  what  is  it  worth  to 
me  or  to  any  other  living  soul?" — these  are  the  men  and 
women  who  now  and  then  touch  or  startle  us  with  the 
eyes  and  the  voice  of  Julie,  if,  at  least,  we  have  the 
capacity  that  responds.  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,  for  instance, 
prince  of  self-governed  and  reasonable  men,  was  not  to 
be  touched  by  Julie.  For  him,  in  spite  of  her  keen  in- 
telligence, she  was  the  type  passionne,  from  which  he 
instinctively  recoiled  —  the  Duke  of  Crowborough  the 
same.  Such  men  feel  towards  such  women  as  Julie  Le 
Breton  hostility  or  satire;  for  what  they  ask,  above  all, 
of  the  women  of  their  world  is  a  kind  of  simplicity,  a 
kind  of  lightness  which  makes  life  easier  for  men. 

But  for  natures  like  Evelyn  Crowborough — or  Mere- 
dith— or  Jacob  Delafield — the  Julie-type  has  perennial 
attractions.  For  these  are  all  children  of  feeling,  allied 
in  this,  however  different  in  intelligence  or  philosophy. 
They  are  attracted  by  the  storm-tossed  tem.perament  in 
itself;  by  mere  sensibility;  by  that  which,  in  the  technical 
language  of  Catholicism,  suggests  or  possesses  "the  gift 
of  tears."  At  any  rate,  pity  and  love  for  her  poor  Julie 
— however  foolish,  however  faulty — lay  warm  in  Evelyn 
Crowborough's  breast;  they  had  brought  her  to  Como; 
they  kept  her  now  battling  on  the  one  hand  with  her 
husband's  angry  letters  and  on  the  other  with  the 
melancholy  of  her  most  perplexing,  most  appealing 
friend. 

381 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"I  had  often  heard"  [wrote  the  sore-tried  Duke]  "of  the 
ravages  wrought  in  family  Hfe  by  these  absurd  and  unrea- 
sonable female  friendships,  btit  I  never  thought  that  it 
would  be  you,  Evelyn,  who  would  bring  them  home  to  me. 
I  won't  repeat  the  arguments  I  have  used  a  hundred  times 
in  vain.  But  once  again  I  implore  and  demand  that  you 
should  find  some  kind,  responsible  person  to  look  after 
Miss  Le  Breton — I  don't  care  what  you  pay — and  that  you 
yourself  should  come  home  to  me  and  the  children  and  the 
thousand  and  one  duties  you  are  neglecting. 

"As  for  the  spring  month  in  Scotland,  which  I  generally 
enjoy  so  much,  that  has  been  already  entirely  ruined.  And 
now  the  season  is  apparently  to  be  ruined  also.  On  the 
Shropshire  property  there  is  an  important  election  coming 
on,  as  I  am  sure  you  know;  and  the  Premier  said  to  me 
only  yesterday  that  he  hoped  you  were  already  up  and  do- 
ing.    The  Grand  Duke  of  C will  be  in  London  within 

the  next  fortnight.  I  particularly  want  to  show  him  some 
civility.  But  what  can  I  do  without  you  —  and  how  on 
earth  am  I  to  explain  yoiir  absence? 

' '  Once  more,  Evelyn,  I  beg  and  I  demand  that  you  should 
come  home." 

To  which  the  Duchess  had  rushed  ofif  a  reply  without 
a  post's  delay. 

"  Oh,  Freddie,  you  are  such  a  wooden-headed  darling!  As 
if  I  hadn't  explained  till  I'm  black  in  the  face.  I'm  glad, 
anyway,  you  didn't  say  command;  that  would  really  have 
made  difficulties. 

"As  for  the  election,  I'm  sure  if  I  was  at  home  I  should 
think  it  very  good  fun.     Out  here  I  am  extremely  doubtful 

whether  we  ought  to  do  such  things  as  you  and  Lord  M 

suggest.  A  duke  shouldn't  interfere  in  elections.  Any- 
way, I'm  svire  it's  good  for  my  character  to  consider  it  a 
little — though  I  quite  admit  you  may  lose  the  election. 

382 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"The  Grand  Diike  is  a  horrid  wretch,  and  if  he  wasn't  a 
grand  duke  you'd  be  the  first  to  cut  him.  I  had  to  spend 
a  whole  dinner-time  last  year  in  teaching  him  his  proper 
place.  It  was  very  humiliating,  and  not  at  all  amusing. 
You  can  have  a  men's  dinner  for  him.     That's  all  he's  fit  for. 

"And  as  for  the  babies,  Mrs.  Robson  sends  me  a  telegram 
every  morning.  I  can't  make  out  that  they  have  had  a 
finger-ache  since  I  went  away,  and  I  am  sure  mothers  are 
entirely  superfluous.  All  the  same,  I  think  about  them  a 
great  deal,  especially  at  night.  Last  night  I  tried  to  think 
about  their  education — if  only  I  wasn't  such  a  sleepy  creat- 
ure! But,  at  any  rate,  I  never  in  my  life  tried  to  think 
about  it  at  home.     So  that's  so  much  to  the  good. 

"  Indeed,  I'll  come  back  to  you  soon,  you  poor,  forsaken, 
old  thing!  But  Julie  has  no  one  in  the  world,  and  I  feel  like 
a  Newfoundland  dog  who  has  pulled  some  one  out  of  the 
water.  The  water  was  deep;  and  the  life's  only  just  com- 
ing back;  and  the  dog's  not  much  good.  But  he  sits  there, 
for  company,  till  the  doctor  comes,  and  that's  just  what 
I'm  doing. 

"  I  know  you  don't  approve  of  the  notions  I  have  in  my 
head  now.  But  that's  because  you  don't  understand. 
Why  don't  you  come  out  and  join  us?  Then  you'd  like 
Julie  as  much  as  I  do;  everything  would  be  quite  simple; 
and  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least  jealous. 

"Dr.  Meredith  is  coming  here,  probably  to-night,  and 
Jacob  should  arrive  to-morrow  on  his  way  to  Venice,  where 
poor  Chudleigh  and  his  boy  are." 

The  breva,  or  fair-weather  wind,  from  the  north  was 
blowing  freshly  yet  softly  down  the  lake.  The  afternoon 
sun  was  burning  on  Bellaggio,  on  the  long  terrace  of  the 
Melzi  villa,  on  the  white  mist  of  fruit-blossom  that  lay 
lightly  on  the  green  slopes  above  San  Giovanni. 

383 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

Suddenly  the  Duchess  and  the  boatman  left  the  com- 
mon topics  of  every  day  by  which  the  Duchess  was  try- 
ing to  improve  her  Italian — such  as  the  proposed  en- 
largement of  the  Bellevue  Hotel,  the  new  villas  that  were 
springing  up,  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Carlotta,  and  so 
forth.  Evelyn  had  carelessly  asked  the  old  man  whether 
he  had  been  in  any  of  the  fighting  of  '59,  and  in  an  in- 
stant, under  her  eyes,  he  became  another  being.  Out 
rolled  a  torrent  of  speech ;  the  oars  lay  idly  on  the  water ; 
and  through  the  man's  gnarled  and  wrinkled  face  there 
blazed  a  high  and  illumining  passion.  Novara  and  its 
beaten  king,  in  '49;  the  ten  years  of  waiting,  when  a 
whole  people  bode  its  time,  in  a  gay,  grim  silence;  the 
grudging  victory  of  Magenta ;  the  fivefold  struggle  that 
wrenched  the  hills  of  San  Martino  from  the  Austrians; 
the  humiliations  and  the  rage  of  Villafranca — of  all  these 
had  this  wasted  graybeard  made  a  part.  And  he  talked 
of  them  with  the  Latin  eloquence  and  facility,  as  no  vet- 
eran of  the  north  could  have  talked;  he  was  in  a  mo- 
ment the  equal  of  these  great  affairs  in  which  he  had 
mingled;  so  that  one  felt  in  him  the  son  of  a  race  which 
had  been  rolled  and  polished — a  pebble,  as  it  were,  from 
rocks  which  had  made  the  primeval  frame-work  of  the 
world — in  the  main  course  and  stream  of  history. 

Then  from  the  campaign  of  '59  he  fell  back  on  the 
Five  Days  of  Milan  in  '48 — the  immortal  days,  when  a 
populace  drove  out  an  army,  and  what  began  almost  in 
jest  ended  in  a  delirium,  a  stupefaction  of  victory.  His 
language  was  hot,  broken,  confused,  like  the  street  fight- 
ing it  chronicled.  Afterwards — a  further  sharpening  and 
blanching  of  the  old  face — and  he  had  carried  them  deep 
into  the  black  years  of  Italy's  patience  and  Austria's  re- 

384 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

venge.  Throwing  out  a  thin  arm,  he  pointed  towards 
town  after  town  on  the  lake  shores,  now  in  the  brilHance 
of  sunset,  now  in  the  shadow  of  the  northern  slope — 
Gravedona,  Varenna,  Argegno — towns  which  had  each 
of  them  given  their  sons  to  the  Austrian  bullet  and  the 
Austrian  lash  for  the  ransom  of  Italy. 

He  ran  through  the  sacred  names — Stazzonelli,  Ric- 
cini,  Crescieri,  Ronchetti,  Ceresa,  Previtali — young  men, 
almost  all  of  them,  shot  for  the  possession  of  a  gun  or  a 
knife,  for  helping  their  comrades  in  the  Austrian  army 
to  desert,  for  "insulting  conduct"  towards  an  Austrian 
soldier  or  officer. 

Of  one  of  these  executions,  which  he  had  himself 
witnessed  at  Varese — the  shooting  of  a  young  fellow  of 
six-and-twenty,  his  own  friend  and  kinsman — he  gave 
an  account  which  blanched  the  Duchess's  cheeks  and 
brought  the  big  tears  into  her  eyes.  Then,  when  he 
saw  the  effect  he  had  produced,  the  old  man  trem- 
bled. 

"Ah,  eccellenza,"  he  cried,  "but  it  had  to  be!  The 
Italians  had  to  show  they  knew  how  to  die;  then  God 
let  them  live.     Ecco,  eccellenza!" 

And  he  drew  from  his  breast-pocket,  with  shaking 
hands,  an  old  envelope  tied  round  with  string.  When 
he  had  untied  it,  a  piece  of  paper  emerged,  brown  with 
age  and  worn  with  much  reading.  It  was  a  rudely 
printed  broadsheet  containing  an  account  of  the  last 
words  and  sufferings  of  the  mart3^rs  of  Mantua — those 
conspirators  of  1S52 — from  whose  graves  and  dungeons 
sprang,  tenfold  renewed,  the  regenerating  and  liberating 
forces  which,  but  a  few  years  later,  drove  out  the 
Austrian  with  the  Bourbon,  together. 
25  385 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"See  here,  eccellenza,"  he  said,  as  he  tenderly  spread 
out  its  tattered  folds  and  gave  it  into  the  Duchess's 
hand.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  look  where  is  that  black 
mark.  There  you  will  find  the  last  words  of  Don  Enrico 
Tazzoli,  the  half-brother  of  my  father.  He  was  a 
priest,  eccellenza.  Ah,  it  was  not  then  as  it  is  now!  The 
priests  were  then  for  Italy.  They  hanged  three  of  them 
at  Mantua  alone.  As  for  Don  Enrico,  first  they  stripped 
him  of  his  priesthood,  and  then  they  hanged  him.  And 
those  were  his  last  words,  and  the  last  words  of  Scarsellini 
also,  who  suffered  with  him.  Veda  eccellenza!  As  for 
me,  I  know  them  from  a  boy." 

And  while  the  Duchess  read,  the  old  man  repeated 
tags  and  fragments  under  his  breath,  as  he  once  more 
resumed  the  oars  and  drove  the  boat  gently  towards 
Menaggio. 

"  The  multitude  of  victims  has  not  robbed  us  of  courage 
in  the  past,  nor  will  it  so  rob  us  in  the  ftUure — till  victory 
dawns.  The  cause  of  the  people  is  like  the  cause  of  religion 
— it  triumphs  only  through  its  martyrs.  .  .  .  You — who 
survive — will  conquer,  and  in  your  victory  we,  the  dead, 
shall  live.  .  .  . 

"  Take  no  thought  for  us  ;  the  blood  of  the  forerunners 
is  like  the  seed  which  the  wise  husbandman  scatters  on  the 
fertile  ground.  .  .  .  Teach  otir  young  men  how  to  adore 
and  how  to  suffer  for  a  great  idea.  Work  incessantly  at 
that ;  so  shall  our  country  come  to  birth  ;  and  grieve  not 
for  us  !  .  .  .  Yes,  Italy  shall  be  one  !  To  that  all  things 
point.  Work!  There  is  no  obstacle  that  cannot  be  over- 
come, no  opposition  that  cannot  be  destroyed.  The  how 
and  the  when  only  remain  to  be  solved.  You,  more  fortu- 
nate than  we,  will  find  the  clew  to  the  riddle,  when  all 

386 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

things  are  accomplished,  and  the  times  arc  ripe.  .  .  . 
Hope  I — my  parents,  and  my  brothers — hope  always! — 
and  waste  no  time  in  weeping.'^ 

The  Duchess  read  aloud  the  ItaHan,  and  JuHe  stooped 
over  her  shoulder  to  follow  the  words. 

"Marvellous!"  said  Julie,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  sank 
back  into  her  place.  "A  youth  of  twenty-seven,  with 
the  rope  round  his  neck,  and  he  comforts  himself  with 
'  Italy.'  What's  '  Italy '  to  him,  or  he  to  '  Italy  '  ? "  Not 
even  an  immediate  paradise.  Is  there  anybody  capable 
of  it  now?" 

Her  face  and  attitude  had  lost  their  languor.  As  the 
Duchess  returned  his  treasure  to  the  old  man  she  looked 
at  Julie  with  joy.  Not  since  her  illness  had  there  been 
any  such  sign  of  warmth  and  energy. 

And,  indeed,  as  they  floated  on,  past  the  glow  of 
Bellaggio,  towards  the  broad  gold  and  azure  of  the 
farther  lake,  the  world-defying  passion  that  breathed 
from  these  words  of  dead  and  murdered  Italians  played 
as  a  bracing  and  renewing  power  on  Julie's  still  feeble 
being.  It  was  akin  to  the  high  snows  on  those  far  Alps 
that  closed  in  the  lake — to  the  pure  wind  that  blew  from 
them — to  the  "gleam,  the  shadow,  and  the  peace  su- 
preme," amid  which  their  little  boat  pressed  on  towards 
the  shore. 

"What  matter,"  cried  the  intelligence,  but  as  though 
through  sobs — "what  matter  the  individual  struggle 
and  misery?  These  can  be  lived  down.  The  heart  can 
be  silenced — nerves  steadied — strength  restored.  Will 
and  idea  remain — the  eternal  spectacle  of  the  world, 
and  the  eternal  thirst  of  man  to  see,  to  know,  to 
feel,  to  realize  himself,  if  not  in  one  passion,  then  in 

387 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

another.     If  not   in   love,   then   in   patriotism  —  art — 
thought." 

The  Duchess  and  Julie  landed  presently  beneath  the 
villa  of  which  they  were  the  passing  tenants.  The 
Duchess  mounted  the  double  staircase  where  the  banksia 
already  hung  in  a  golden  curtain  over  the  marble  balus- 
trade. Her  face  was  thoughtful.  She  had  to  write  her 
daily  letter  to  the  absent  and  reproachful  Duke. 

Julie  parted  from  her  with  a  caress,  and  paused  awhile 
to  watch  the  small  figure  till  it  mounted  out  of  sight. 
Her  friend  had  become  very  dear  to  her.  A  new  hu- 
mility, a  new  gratitude  filled  her  heart.  Evelyn  should 
not  sacrifice  herself  much  longer.  When  she  had  insisted 
on  carrying  her  patient  abroad,  Julie  had  neither  mind 
nor  will  wherewith  to  resist.  But  now — the  Duke  should 
soon  come  to  his  own  again. 

She  herself  turned  inland  for  that  short  walk  by 
which  each  day  she  tested  her  returning  strength.  She 
climbed  the  winding  road  to  Criante,  the  lovely  village 
above  Cadenabbia;  then,  turning  to  the  left,  she  mounted 
a  path  that  led  to  the  woods  which  overhang  the  famous 
gardens  of  the  Villa  Carlotta. 

Such  a  path!  To  the  left  hand,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
steeply  beneath  her  feet,  all  earth  and  heaven — the  wide 
lake,  the  purple  mountains,  the  glories  of  a  flaming  sky. 
On  the  calm  spaces  of  water  lay  a  shimmer  of  crimson 
and  gold,  repeating  the  noble  splendor  of  the  clouds; 
the  midgelike  boats  crept  from  shore  to  shore;  and, 
midway  between  Bellaggio  and  Cadenabbia,  the  steam- 
boat, a  white  speck,  drew  a  silver  furrow.  To  her 
right  a  green  hill-side — each  blade  of  grass,  each  flower, 

388 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

each  tuft  of  heath,  enskied,  transfigured,  by  the  broad 
Ught  that  poured  across  it  from  the  hidden  west.  And 
on  the  very  hill-top  a  few  scattered  oHves,  peaches,  and 
wild  cherries  scrawled  upon  the  blue,  their  bare,  leaning 
stems,  their  pearly  whites,  their  golden  pinks  and  feath- 
ery grays  all  in  a  glory  of  sunset  that  made  of  them 
things  enchanted,  aerial,  fantastical,  like  a  dance  of 
Botticelli  angels  on  the  height. 

And  presently  a  sheltered  bank  in  a  green  hollow, 
where  Julie  sat  down  to  rest.  But  nature,  in  this  tran- 
quil spot,  had  still  new  pageants,  new  sorceries  where- 
with to  play  upon  the  nerves  of  wonder.  Across  the 
hollow  a  great  crag  clothed  in  still  leafless  chestnut- 
trees  reared  itself  against  the  lake.  The  innumerable 
lines  of  stem  and  branch,  warm  brov/n  or  steely  gray, 
were  drawn  sharp  on  silver  air,  while  at  the  very  sum- 
mit of  the  rock  one  superb  tree  with  branching  limbs, 
touched  with  intense  black,  sprang  high  above  the  rest, 
the  proud  plume  or  ensign  of  the  wood.  Through  the 
trunks  the  blaze  of  distant  snow  and  the  purples  of 
craggy  mountains;  in  front  the  glistening  spray  of 
peach  or  cherry  blossom,  breaking  the  still  wintry 
beauty  of  that  majestic  grove.  And  in  all  the  air, 
dropping  from  the  heaven,  spread  on  the  hills,  or 
shimmering  on  the  lake,  a  diffusion  of  purest  rose  and 
deepest  blue,  lake  and  cloud  and  mountain  each  melting 
into  the  other,  as  though  heaven  and  earth  conspired 
merely  to  give  value  and  relief  to  the  year's  new  birth,  to 
this  near  sparkle  of  young  leaf  and  blossom  which  shone 
like  points  of  fire  on  the  deep  breast  of  the  distance. 

On  the  green  ledge  which  ran  round  the  hollow  were 
children  tugging  at  a  goat.     Opposite  was  a  contadino's 

389 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

house  of  gray  stone.  A  water-wheel  turned  beside  it, 
and  a  stream,  brought  down  from  the  hills,  ran  chatter- 
ing past,  a  white  and  dancing  thread  of  water.  Every- 
thing was  very  still  and  soft.  The  children  and  the  river 
made  their  voices  heard;  and  there  were  nightingales 
singing  in  the  woods  below.  Otherwise  all  was  quiet. 
With  a  tranquil  and  stealthy  joy  the  spring  was  taking 
possession.  Nay — theAngelus!  It  swung  over  the  lake 
and  rolled  from  village  to  village.  .  .  . 

The  tears  were  in  Julie's  eyes.  Such  beauty  as  this 
was  apt  now  to  crush  and  break  her.  All  her  being  was 
still  sore,  and  this  appeal  of  nature  was  sometimes  more 
than  she  could  bear. 

Only  a  few  short  weeks  since  Warkworth  had  gone 
out  of  her  life — since  Delafield  at  a  stroke  had  saved  her 
from  ruin — since  Lord  Lackington  had  passed  away. 

One  letter  had  reached  her  from  Warkworth,  a  wild 
and  incoherent  letter,  written  at  night  in  a  little  room  of 
a  squalid  hotel  near  the  Gare  de  Sceaux.  Her  tele- 
gram had  reached  him,  and  for  him,  as  for  her,  all  was 
over. 

But  the  letter  was  by  no  means  a  mere  cry  of  bafifled 
passion.  There  was  in  it  a  new  note  of  moral  anguish, 
as  fresh  and  startling  in  her  ear,  coming  from  him,  as  the 
cry  of  passion  itself.  In  the  language  of  religion,  it  was 
the  utterance  of  a  man  "convicted  of  sin." 

"How  long  is  it  since  that  man  gave  me  your  telegram? 
I  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  departure  platform,  work- 
ing myself  into  an  agony  of  nervousness  and  anxiety  as  the 
time  went  by,  wondering  what  on  earth  had  happened  to 
you,  when  the  chef  de  gare  came  up :  '  Monsieur  attend  une 
depeche?'     There  were  some  stupid  formalities — at  last  I 

390 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

got  it.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  already  guessed  what  it  con- 
tained. 

"  So  it  was  Delafield  who  met  you — Delafield  who  tiirned 
you  back? 

"I  saw  him  outside  the  hotel  yesterday,  and  we  ex- 
changed a  few  words.  I  have  always  disliked  his  long,  pale 
face  and  his  high  and  mighty  ways — at  any  rate,  towards 
plain  fellows,  who  don't  belong  to  the  classes,  like  me. 
Yesterday  I  was  more  than  usually  anxious  to  get  rid  of 
him. 

"So  he  guessed? 

"It  can't  have  been  chance.  In  some  way  he  guessed. 
And  you  have  been  torn  from  me.  My  God!  If  I  could 
only  reach  him — if  I  could  fling  his  contempt  in  his  face! 
And  yet — 

"I  have  been  walking  up  and  down  this  room  all  night. 
The  longing  for  you  has  been  the  sharpest  sufi^ering  I  sup- 
pose that  I  have  ever  known.  For  I  am  not  one  of  the  many 
people  who  enjoy  pain.  I  have  kept  as  free  of  it  as  I  could. 
This  time  it  caught  and  gripped  me.  Yet  that  isn't  all. 
There  has  been  something  else. 

"What  strange,  patched  creatures  we  are!  Do  you 
know,  Julie,  that  by  the  time  the  dawn  came  I  was  on  my 
knees — thanking  God  that  we  were  parted — that  you  were 
on  your  way  home — safe — out  of  my  reach?  Was  I  mad, 
or  what?  I  can't  explain  it.  I  only  know  that  one  mo- 
ment I  hated  Delafield  as  a  mortal  enemy — whether  he  was 
conscious  of  what  he  had  done  or  no — and  the  next  I  found 
myself  blessing  him! 

"  I  understand  now  what  people  mean  when  they  talk  of 
conversion.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  hours  I  have  just 
passed  through  things  have  come  to  light  in  me  that  I  my- 
self never  suspected.  I  came  of  an  Evangelical  stock — I 
was  brought  up  in  a  religious  household.  I  suppose  that 
one  can't,  after  all,  get  away  from  the  blood  and  the  life 

39? 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

that  one  inherits.  My  poor,  old  father — I  was  a  bad  son, 
and  I  know  I  hastened  his  death — was  a  sort  of  Puritan 
saint,  with  very  stem  ideas.  I  seem  to  have  been  talking 
with  him.  this  night,  and  shrinking  under  his  condemnation. 
I  could  see  his  old  face,  as  he  put  before  me  the  thoughts  I 
had  dared  to  entertain,  the  risks  I  had  been  ready  to  take 
towards  the  woman  I  loved — the  woman  to  whom  I  owed  a 
deep  debt  of  eternal  gratitude. 

"Julie,  it  is  strange  how  this  appointment  affects  me. 
Last  night  I  saw  several  people  at  the  Embassy — good  fel- 
lows— who  seemed  anxious  to  do  all  they  could  for  me. 
Such  men  never  took  so  much  notice  of  me  before.  It  is 
plain  to  me  that  this  task  will  make  or  mar  me.  I  may  fail. 
I  may  die.  But  if  I  succeed  England  will  owe  me  some- 
thing, and  these  men  at  the  top  of  the  tree — 

"Good  God!  how  can  I  go  on  writing  this  to  you?  It's 
because  I  came  back  to  the  hotel  and  tossed  about  half  the 
night  brooding  over  the  difference  between  what  these  men 
■ — these  honorable,  distinguished  fellows — were  prepared  to 
think  of  me,  and  the  blackguard  I  knew  myself  to  be. 
What,  take  everything  from  a  woman's  hand,  and  then  turn 
and  try  and  drag  her  in  the  mire — propose  to  her  what  one 
would  shoot  a  man  for  proposing  to  one's  sister!  Thief  and 
cur. 

"Julie — kind,  beloved  Julie — forget  it  all!  For  God's 
sake,  let's  cast  it  all  behind  us !  As  long  as  I  live,  your  name, 
your  memory  will  live  in  my  heart.  We  shall  not  meet, 
probably,  for  many  years.  You'll  marry  and  be  happy  yet. 
Just  now  I  know  you're  suffering.  I  seem  to  see  you  in  the 
train — on  the  steamer — your  pale  face  that  has  lighted  up 
life  for  me — your  dear,  slender  hands  that  folded  so  easily 
into  one  of  mine.  You  are  in  pain,  my  darling.  Your  nat- 
ure is  wrenched  from  its  natural  supports.  And  you  gave 
me  all  your  fine,  clear  mind,  and  all  your  heart.  I  ought 
to  be  damned  to  the  deepest  hell! 

392 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Then,  again,  I  say  to  myself,  if  only  she  were  here!  If 
only  I  had  her  here,  with  her  arms  round  my  neck,  surely  I 
might  have  found  the  courage  and  the  mere  manliness  to 
extricate  both  herself  and  me  from  these  entanglements. 
Aileen  might  have  released  and  forgiven  one. 

"No,  no!  It's  all  over!  I'll  go  and  do  my  task.  You 
set  it  me.     You  sha'n't  be  ashamed  of  me  there. 

"Good-bye,  Julie,  my  love — good-bye — forever!" 

These  were  portions  of  that  strange  document  com- 
posed through  the  intervals  of  a  long  night,  which  showed 
in  Warkworth's  mind  the  survival  of  a  moral  code,  in- 
herited from  generations  of  scrupulous  and  God-fearing 
ancestors,  overlaid  by  selfish  living,  and  now  revived 
under  the  stress,  the  purification  partly  of  deepening 
passion,  partly  of  a  high  responsibility.  The  letter  was 
incoherent,  illogical;  it  showed  now  the  meaner,  now 
the  nobler  elements  of  character;  but  it  was  human;  it 
came  from  the  warm  depths  of  life,  and  it  had  exerted 
in  the  end  a  composing  and  appeasing  force  upon  the 
woman  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  He  had  loved  her — 
if  only  at  the  moment  of  parting — he  had  loved  her !  At 
the  last  there  had  been  feeling,  sincerity,  anguish,  and 
to  these  all  things  may  be  forgiven. 

And,  indeed,  what  in  her  eyes  there  was  to  forgive, 
Julie  had  long  forgiven.  Was  it  his  fault  if,  when  they 
met  first,  he  was  already  pledged — for  social  and  prac- 
tical reasons  which  her  mind  perfectly  recognized  and 
understood — to  Aileen  Moflfatt?  Was  it  his  fault  if  the 
relations  between  herself  and  him  had  ripened  into  a 
friendship  which  in  its  turn  could  only  maintain  itself 
by  passing  into  love?  No!  It  was  she,  whose  hidden, 
insistent  passion — nourished,  indeed,  upon  a  tragic  igno- 

393 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ranee — had  transformed  what  originally  he  had  a  per- 
fect right  to  offer  and  to  feel. 

So  she  defended  him;  for  in  so  doing  she  justified  her- 
self. And  as  to  the  Paris  proposal,  he  had  a  right  to 
treat  her  as  a  woman  capable  of  deciding  for  herself  how 
far  love  should  carry  her;  he  had  a  right  to  assume  that 
her  antecedents,  her  training,  and  her  circumstances  were 
not  those  of  the  ordinary  sheltered  girl,  and  that  for  her 
love  might  naturally  wear  a  bolder  and  wilder  aspect 
than  for  others.  He  blamed  himself  too  severely,  too 
passionately;  but  for  this  very  blame  her  heart  remem- 
bered him  the  more  tenderly.  For  it  meant  that  his 
mind  was  torn  and  in  travail  for  her,  that  his  thoughts 
clung  to  her  in  a  passionate  remorse;  and  again  she  felt 
herself  loved,  and  forgave  with  all  her  heart. 

All  the  same,  he  was  gone  out  of  her  life,  and  through 
the  strain  and  the  unconscious  progress  to  other  planes 
and  phases  of  being,  wrought  by  sickness  and  convales- 
cence, her  own  passion  for  him  even  was  now  a  changed 
and  blunted  thing. 

Was  she  ashamed  .of  the  wild  impulse  which  had  car- 
ried her  to  Paris?  It  is  difficult  to  say.  She  was  often 
seized  with  the  shuddering  consciousness  of  an  abyss  es- 
caped, with  wonder  that  she  was  still  in  the  normal,  ac- 
cepted world,  that  Evelyn  might  still  be  her  companion, 
that  Therese  still  adored  her  more  fervently  than  any 
saint  in  the  calendar.  Perhaps,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
she  was  more  abased  in  her  own  eyes  by  the  self-aban- 
donment which  had  preceded  the  assignation  with 
Wark worth.  Sihe  had  much  intellectual  arrogance,  and 
before  her  acquaintance  with  Warkworth  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  say  and  to  feel  that  love  was  but  one  pag- 

394 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

sion  among  many,  and  to  despise  those  who  gave  it  too 
great  a  place.  And  here  she  had  flung  herself  into  it, 
like  any  dull  or  foolish  girl  for  whom  a  love  affair  repre- 
sents the  only  stirring  in  the  pool  of  life  that  she  is  ever 
likely  to  know. 

Well,  she  must  recapture  herself  and  remake  her  life. 
As  she  sat  there  in  the  still  Italian  evening  she  thought  of 
the  old  boatman,  and  those  social  and  intellectual  pas- 
sions to  which  his  burst  of  patriotism  had  recalled  her 
thoughts.  Society,  literature,  friends,  and  the  ambi- 
tions to  which  these  lead — let  her  go  back  to  them  and 
build  her  days  afresh.  Dr.  Meredith  was  coming.  In 
his  talk  and  companionship  she  would  once  more  dip 
and  temper  the  tools  of  mind  and  taste.  No  more  vain 
self-arraignment,  no  more  useless  regrets.  She  looked 
back  with  bitterness  upon  a  moment  of  weakness  when, 
in  the  first  stage  of  convalescence,  in  mortal  weariness 
and  loneliness,  she  had  slipped  one  evening  into  the 
Farm  Street  church  and  unburdened  her  heart  in  con- 
fession. As  she  had  told  the  Duchess,  the  Catholicism 
instilled  into  her  youth  by  the  Bruges  nuns  still  laid  upon 
her  at  times  its  ghostly  and  compelling  hand.  Now  in 
her  renewed  strength  she  was  inclined  to  look  upon  it  as 
an  element  of  weakness  and  disintegration  in  her  nature. 
She  resolved,  in  future,  to  free  herself  more  entirely  from 
a  useless  Aberglaube. 

But  Meredith  was  not  the  only  visitor  expected  at  the 
villa  in  the  next  few  days.  She  was  already  schooling 
herself  to  face  the  arrival  of  Jacob  Delafield. 

It  was  curious  how  the  mere  thought  of  Delafield  pro- 
duced an  agitation,  a  shock  of  feeling,  which  seemed  to 
spread  through  all  the  activities  of  being.  The  faint, 
ii.-ii  395 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

renascent  glamour  which  had  begun  to  attach  to  litera- 
ture and  social  life  disappeared.  She  fell  into  a  kind  of 
brooding,  the  sombre  restlessness  of  one  who  feels  in  the 
dark  the  recurrent  presence  of  an  attacking  and  pursuing 
power,  and  is  in  a  tremulous  uncertainty  where  or  how 
to  meet  it. 

The  obscure  tumult  within  her  represented,  in  fact,  a 
collision  between  the  pagan  and  Christian  conceptions  of 
life.  In  self-dependence,  in  personal  pride,  in  her  desire 
to  refer  all  things  to  the  arbitrament  of  reason,  Julie, 
whatever  her  practice,  was  theoretically  a  stoic  and  a 
pagan.  But  Delafield's  personality  embodied  another 
"must,"  another  "ought,"  of  a  totally  different  kind. 
And  it  was  a  "must"  which,  in  a  great  crisis  of  her  life, 
she  also  had  been  forced  to  obey.  There  was  the 
thought  which  stung  and  humiliated.  And  the  fact  was 
irreparable;  nor  did  she  see  how  she  was  ever  to  escape 
from  the  strange,  silent,  penetrating  relation  it  had  es- 
tablished between  her  and  the  man  who  loved  her  and 
had  saved  her,  against  her  will. 

During  her  convalescence  at  Crowborough  House,  Del- 
afield  had  been  often  admitted.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  exclude  him,  unless  she  had  confided  the 
whole  story  of  the  Paris  journey  to  the  Duchess.  And 
whatever  Evelyn  might  tremblingly  guess,  from  Julie's 
own  mouth  she  knew  nothing.  So  Delafield  had  come 
and  gone,  bringing  Lord  Lackington's  last  words,  and  the 
account  of  his  funeral,  or  acting  as  intermediary  in  busi- 
ness matters  between  Julie  and  the  Chantrey  brothers. 
Julie  could  not  remember  that  she  had  ever  asked  him 
for  these  services.  They  fell  to  him,  as  it  were,  by  com- 
mon consent,  and  she  had  been  too  weak  to  resist. 

396 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

At  first,  whenever  he  entered  the  room,  whenever  he 
approached  her,  her  sense  of  anger  and  resentment  had 
been  almost  unbearable.  But  little  by  little  his  courtesy, 
tact,  and  coolness  had  restored  a  relation  between  them 
which,  if  not  the  old  one,  had  still  many  of  the  outward 
characters  of  intimacy.  Not  a  word,  not  the  remotest 
allusion  reminded  her  of  what  had  happened.  The  man 
who  had  stood  before  her  transfigured  on  the  deck  of  the 
steamer,  stammering  out,  "  I  thank  God  I  had  the  cour- 
age to  do  it!" — it  was  often  hard  for  her  to  believe,  as 
she  stole  a  look  at  Delafield,  chatting  or  writing  in  the 
Duchess's  drawing-room,  that  such  a  scene  had  ever 
taken  place. 

The  evening  stole  on.  How  was  it  that  whenever  she 
allowed  the  thought  of  Delafield  to  obtain  a  real  lodg- 
ment in  the  mind,  even  the  memory  of  Warkworth  was 
for  the  time  effaced  ?  Silently,  irresistibly,  a  wild  heat  of 
opposition  would  develop  within  her.  These  men  round 
whom,  as  it  were,  there  breathes  an  air  of  the  heights;  in 
whom  one  feels  the  secret  guard  that  religion  keeps  over 
thoughts  and  words  and  acts — her  passionate  yet  critical 
nature  flung  out  against  them.  How  are  they  better 
than  others,  after  all?  What  right  have  they  over  the 
wills  of  others? 

Nevertheless,  as  the  rose  of  evening  burned  on  the 
craggy  mountain  face  beyond  Bellaggio,  retreating  up- 
ward, step  by  step,  till  the  last  glorious  summit  had  died 
into  the  cool  and  already  starlit  blues  of  night,  Julie,  held, 
as  it  were,  by  a  reluctant  and  half-jealous  fascination,  sat 
dreaming  on  the  hill-side,  not  now  of  Warkworth,  not  of 
tiie  ambitions  of  the  mind,  or  society,  but  simply  of  the 

.^Q7 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

goings  and  comings,  the  aspects  and  sayings  of  a  man 
in  whose  eyes  she  had  once  read  the  deepest  and  sternest 
things  of  the  soul  —  a  condemnation  and  an  anguish 
above  and  beyond  himself. 

Dr.  Meredith  arrived  in  due  time,  a  jaded  Londoner 
athirst  for  idleness  and  fresh  air.  The  Duchess  and 
Julie  carried  him  hither  and  thither  about  the  lake  in  the 
four-oar  boat  which  had  been  hired  for  the  Duchess's 
pleasure.  Here,  enthroned  between  the  two  ladies,  he 
passed  luxurious  hours,  and  his  talk  of  politics,  persons, 
and  books  brought  just  that  stimulus  to  Julie's  intelli- 
gence and  spirits  for  which  the  Duchess  had  been  secretly 
longing. 

A  first  faint  color  returned  to  Julie's  cheeks.  She  be- 
gan to  talk  again;  to  resume  certain  correspondences; 
to  show  herself  once  more — at  any  rate  intermittently 
— the  affectionate,  sympathetic,  and  beguiling  friend. 

As  for  Meredith,  he  knew  little,  but  he  suspected  a 
good  deal.  There  were  certain  features  in  her  illness  and 
convalescence  which  suggested  to  him  a  mental  cause; 
and  if  there  were  such  a  cause,  it  must,  of  course,  spring 
from  her  relations  to  Warkworth. 

The  name  of  that  young  officer  was  never  mentioned. 
Once  or  twice  Meredith  was  tempted  to  introduce  it.  It 
rankled  in  his  mind  that  Julie  had  never  been  frank  with 
him,  freely  as  he  had  poured  his  affection  at  her  feet. 
But  a  moment  of  languor  or  of  pallor  disarmed  him. 

"She  is  better,"  he  said  to  the  Duchess  one  day, 
abruptly.  "Her  mind  is  full  of  activity.  But  why,  at 
times,  does  she  still  look  so  miserable  —  like  a  person 
without  hope  or  future?" 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  Duchess  looked  pensive.  They  were  sitting  in 
the  comer  of  one  of  the  villa's  terraced  walks,  amid  a 
scented  wilderness  of  flowers.  Above  them  was  a  canopy 
of  purple  and  yellow — rose  and  wistaria ;  while  through 
the  arches  of  the  pergola  which  ran  along  the  walk 
gleamed  all  those  various  blues  which  make  the  spell  of 
Como — the  blue  and  white  of  the  clouds,  the  purple  of 
the  mountains,  the  azure  of  the  lake. 

"Well,  she  was  in  love  with  him.  I  suppose  it  takes 
a  little  time,"  said  the  Duchess,  sighing. 

"Why  was  she  in  love  with  him?"  said  Meredith,  im- 
patiently. "As  to  the  Moffatt  engagement,  naturally, 
she  was  kept  in  the  dark?" 

"At  first,"  said  the  Duchess,  hesitating.  "And  when 
she  knew,  poor  dear,  it  was  too  late!" 

"Too  late  for  what?" 

"Well,  when  one  falls  in  love  one  doesn't  all  at  once 
shake  it  off  because  the  man  deceives  you." 

"One  should,"  said  Meredith,  with  energy.  "Men 
are  not  worth  all  that  women  spend  upon  them." 

"Oh,  that's  true!"  cried  the  Duchess — "so  dreadfully 
true!  But  what's  the  good  of  preaching?  We  shall  go 
on  spending  it  to  the  end  of  time." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  don't  choose  the  dummies  and  the 
frauds." 

"Ah,  there  you  talk  sense,"  said  the  Duchess.  "And 
if  only  we  had  the  French  system  in  England!  If  only 
one  could  say  to  Julie:  '  Now  look  here,  there's  your  hus- 
band! It's  all  settled — down  to  plate  and  linen — and 
you've  got  to  marry  him!'  how  happy  we  should  all 
be." 

Dr.  Meredith  stared. 

399 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"You  have  the  man  in  your  eye,"  he  said. 

The  Duchess  hesitated. 

"Suppose  you  come  a  httle  walk  with  me  in  the 
wood,"  she  said,  at  last,  gathering  up  her  white  skirts. 

Meredith  obeyed  her.  They  were  away  for  half  an 
hour,  and  when  they  returned  the  journalist's  face, 
flushed  and  furrowed  with  thought,  was  not  very  easy 
to  read. 

Nor  was  his  temper  in  good  condition.  It  required  a 
climb  to  the  very  top  of  Monte  Crocione  to  send  him  back, 
more  or  less  appeased,  a  consenting  player  in  the  Duch- 
ess's game.  For  if  there  are  men  who  are  flirts  and 
egotists — who  ought  to  be,  yet  never  are,  divined  by  the 
sensible  woman  at  a  glance — so  also  there  are  men  too 
well  equipped  for  this  wicked  world,  too  good,  too  well 
born,  too  desirable. 

It  was  in  this  somewhat  flinty  and  carping  mood  that 
Meredith  prepared  himself  for  the  advent  of  Jacob  Dela- 
field. 

But  when  Delafield  appeared,  Meredith's  secret  antag- 
onisms were  soon  dissipated.  There  was  certainly  no 
challenging  air  of  prosperity  about  the  young  man. 

At  first  sight,  indeed,  he  was  his  old  cheerful  self,  al- 
ways ready  for  a  walk  or  a  row,  on  easy  terms  at  once 
with  the  Italian  servants  or  boatmen.  But  soon  other 
facts  emerged — stealthily,  as  it  were,  from  the  conceal- 
ment in  which  a  strong  man  was  trying  to  keep  them. 

"That  young  man's  youth  is  over,"  said  Meredith, 
abruptly,  to  the  Duchess  one  evening.  He  pointed  to 
the  figure  of  Delafield,  who  was  pacing,  alone  with  his 
pipe,  up  and  down  one  of  the  lower  terraces  of  the  garden 

400 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

The  Duchess  showed  a  teased  expression. 

"It's  like  something  wearing  through,"  she  said, 
slowly.  "I  suppose  it  was  always  there,  but  it  didn't 
show." 

"Name  your  'it.'" 

"  I  can't."  But  she  gave  a  little  shudder,  which  made 
Meredith  look  at  her  with  curiosity. 

"  You  feel  something  ghostly — unearthly?" 

She  nodded  assent;  crying  out,  however,  immediately 
afterwards,  as  though  in  compunction,  that  he  was  one 
of  the  dearest  and  best  of  fellows. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Meredith.  "It  is  only  the 
mystic  in  him  coming  out.  He  is  one  of  the  men  who 
have  the  sixth  sense." 

"Well,  all  I  know  is,  he  has  the  oddest  power  over 
people,"  said  Evelyn,  with  another  shiver.  "If  Freddie 
had  it,  my  life  wouldn't  be  worth  living.  Thank  good- 
ness, he  hasn't  a  vestige!" 

"At  bottom  it's  the  power  of  the  priest,"  said  Mere- 
dith. "And  you  women  are  far  too  susceptible  towards 
it.     Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  plays  the  mischief." 

The  Duchess  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  bent 
towards  her  companion,  finger  on  lip,  her  charming  eyes 
glancing  significantly  towards  the  lower  terrace.  The 
figures  on  it  were  now  two.  Julie  and  Delafield  paced 
together. 

"But  this  is  the  tenth!"  she  said,  in  an  eager  whisper. 

Meredith  smiled  at  her,  then  flung  her  a  dubious 
"Chi  sa?"  and  changed  the  subject. 

Delafield,  who  was  a  fine  oar,  had  soon  taken  com- 
mand of  the  lake  expeditions;  and  by  the  help  of  two 
a6  401 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

stalwart  youths  from  Tremezzo,  the  four-oar  was  in  use 
from  morning  till  night.  Through  the  broad  lake  which 
lies  between  Menaggio  and  Varenna  it  sped  northward 
to  Gravedona;  or  beneath  the  shadowy  cliffs  of  the 
Villa  Serbelloni  it  slipped  over  deep  waters,  haunted 
and  dark,  into  the  sunny  spaces  of  Lecco;  or  it  coasted 
along  the  steep  sides  of  Monte  Primo,  so  that  the 
travellers  in  it  might  catch  the  blue  stain  of  the  gentians 
on  the  turf,  where  it  sloped  into  the  lucent  wave  below, 
or  watch  the  fishermen  on  the  rocks,  spearing  their  prey 
in  the  green  or  golden  shallows. 

The  weather  was  glorious — a  summer  before  its  time. 
The  wild  cherries  shook  down  their  snow  upon  the  grass ; 
but  the  pears  were  now  in  bridal  white,  and  a  warmer 
glory  of  apple-blossom  was  just  beginning  to  break  upon 
the  blue.  The  nights  were  calm  and  moonlit;  the 
dawns  were  visions  of  mysterious  and  incredible  beauty, 
wherein  mountain  and  forest  and  lake  were  but  the 
garments,  diaphanous,  impalpable,  of  some  delicate, 
indwelling  light  and  fire  spirit,  which  breathed  and 
pulsed  through  the  solidity  of  rock,  no  less  visibly  than 
through  the  crystal  leagues  of  air  or  the  sunlit  spaces 
of  water. 

Yet  presently,  as  it  were,  a  hush  of  waiting,  of  tension, 
fell  upon  their  little  party.  Nature  offered  her  best ;  but 
there  was  only  an  apparent  acceptance  of  her  bounties. 
Through  the  outward  flow  of  talk  and  amusement,  of 
wanderings  on  lake  or  hill,  ugly  hidden  forces  of  pain 
and  strife,  regret,  misery,  resistance,  made  themselves 
rarely  yet  piercingly  felt. 

Julie  drooped  again.  Her  cheeks  were  paler  even 
than  when  Meredith  arrived.     Delafield,  too,  began  to 

402 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

be  more  silent,  more  absent.  He  was  helpful  and 
courteous  as  ever,  but  it  began  to  be  seen  that  his 
gayety  was  an  effort,  and  now  and  then  there  were  sharp 
or  bitter  notes  in  voice  or  manner,  which  jarred,  and 
were  not  soon  forgotten. 

Presently,  Meredith  and  the  Duchess  found  them- 
selves looking  on,  breathless  and  astonished,  at  the 
struggle  of  two  personalities,  the  wrestle  between  two 
wills.  They  little  knew  that  it  was  a  renewed  struggle — 
a  second  wrestle.  But  silently,  by  a  kind  of  tacit  agree- 
ment, they  drew  away  from  Delafield  and  Julie.  They 
dimly  understood  that  he  pursued  and  she  resisted;  and 
that  for  him  life  was  becoming  gradually  absorbed  into 
the  two  facts  of  her  presence  and  her  resistance. 

"On  ne  s'appuie  que  siir  ce  qui  resiste."  For  both  of 
them  these  words  were  true.  Fundamentally,  and  be- 
yond all  passing  causes  of  grief  and  anger,  each  was 
fascinated  by  the  full  strength  of  nature  in  the  other. 
Neither  could  ever  forget  the  other.  The  hours  grew 
electric,  and  every  tiny  incident  became  charged  with 
spiritual  meaning. 

Often  for  hours  together  Julie  would  try  to  absorb 
herself  in  talk  with  Meredith.  But  the  poor  fellow  got 
little  joy  from  it.  Presently,  at  a  word  or  look  of  Dela- 
field's  she  would  let  herself  be  recaptured,  as  though 
with  a  proud  reluctance;  they  wandered  away  together; 
and  once  more  Meredith  and  the  Duchess  became  the 
merest  by-standers. 

The  Duchess  shrugged  her  shoulders  over  it,  and, 
though  she  laughed,  sometimes  the  tears  were  in  her 
eyes.  She  felt  the  hovering  of  passion,  but  it  was  no 
passion  known  to  her  own  blithe  nature. 

403 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

And  if  only  this  strange  state  of  things  might  end, 
one  way  or  other,  and  set  her  free  to  throw  her  arms 
round  her  Duke's  neck,  and  beg  his  pardon  for  all  these 
weeks  of  desertion!  She  said  to  herself,  ruefully,  that 
her  babies  would  indeed  have  forgotten  her. 

Yet  she  stood  stoutly  to  her  post,  and  the  weeks  pass- 
ed quickly  by.  It  was  the  dramatic  energy  of  the  sit- 
uation—  so  much  more  dramatic  in  truth  than  either 
she  or  Meredith  suspected — that  made  it  such  a  strain 
upon  the  onlookers. 

One  evening  they  had  left  the  boat  at  Tremezzo,  that 
they  might  walk  back  along  that  most  winning  of  paths 
that  skirts  the  lake  between  the  last  houses  of  Tremezzo 
and  the  inn  at  Cadenabbia.  The  sunset  was  nearly  over, 
but  the  air  was  still  suffused  with  its  rose  and  pearl,  and 
fragrant  with  the  scent  of  flowering  laurels.  Each  moun- 
tain face,  each  white  village,  either  couched  on  the  wa- 
ter's edge  or  grouped  about  its  slender  campanile  on 
some  shoulder  of  the  hills,  each  house  and  tree  and  fig- 
ure seemed  still  penetrated  with  light,  the  glorified  creat- 
ures of  some  just  revealed  and  already  fading  world. 
The  echoes  of  the  evening  bell  were  floating  on  the  lake, 
and  from  a  boat  in  front,  full  of  peasant-folk,  there  rose 
a  sound  of  singing,  some  litany  of  saint  or  virgin,  which 
stole  in  harmonies,  rudely  true,  across  the  water. 

"They  have  been  to  the  pilgrimage  church  above  Len- 
no,"  said  Julie,  pointing  to  the  boat,  and  in  order  to 
listen  to  the  singing,  she  found  a  seat  on  a  low  wall 
above  the  lake. 

There  was  no  reply,  and,  looking  round  her,  she  saw 
with  a  start  that  only  Delafield  was  beside  her,  that  the 

404 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

Duchess  and  Meredith  had  already  rounded  the  comer 
of  the  Villa  Carlotta  and  were  out  of  sight. 

Delafield's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  her.  He  was  very- 
pale,  and  suddenly  Julie's  breath  seemed  to  fail  her, 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  it  any  longer,"  he  said,  as  he 
came  close  to  her. 

"Bear  what?" 

"That  you  should  look  as  you  do  now." 

JuHe  made  no  reply.  Her  eyes,  very  sad  and  bitter, 
searched  the  blue  dimness  of  the  lake  in  silence. 

Delafield  sat  down  on  the  wall  beside  her.  Not  a  soul 
was  in  sight.  At  the  Cadenabbia  Hotel,  the  table  d'hote 
had  gathered  in  the  visitors ;  a  few  boats  passed  and  re- 
passed in  the  distance,  but  on  land  all  was  still. 

Suddenly  he  took  her  hand  with  a  firm  grasp. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  forgive  me?"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  bless  you." 

Her  face  seemed  to  him  to  express  the  tremulous  mis- 
ery of  a  heart  deeply,  perhaps  irrevocably,  wounded. 
Emotion  rose  in  a  tide,  but  he  crushed  it  down. 

He  bent  over  her,  speaking  with  deliberate  tender- 
ness. 

"Julie,  do  you  remember  what  you  promised  Lord 
Lackington  when  he  was  dying?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Julie. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  speechless  and  suffocated. 
Her  eyes  expressed  a  mingled  pride  and  terror. 

He  paused,  confronting  her  with  a  pale  resolution. 

"You  didn't  know  that  I  had  seen  him?" 

"Know!" 

She  turned  away  fiercely,  choking  with  sobs  sh^  could 

405 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

hardly  control,  as  the  memory  of  that  by-gone  moment 
returned  upon  her. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Delafield,  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  hoped  never  to  hear  of  your  promise  again." 

She  made  no  answer;  but  she  sank  again  upon  the 
seat  beside  the  lake,  and  supporting  herself  on  one  deli- 
cate hand,  which  clung  to  the  coping  of  the  wall,  she 
turned  her  pale  and  tear-stained  face  to  the  lake  and  the 
evening  sky.  There  was  in  her  gesture  an  unconscious 
yearning,  a  mute  and  anguished  appeal,  as  though  from 
the  oppressions  of  human  character  to  the  broad  strength 
of  nature,  that  was  not  lost  on  Delafield.  His  mind  be- 
came the  centre  of  a  swift  and  fierce  debate.  One  voice 
said :  "  Why  are  you  persecuting  her  ?  Respect  her  weak- 
ness and  her  grief. ' '  And  another  replied :  "  It  is  because 
she  is  weak  that  she  must  yield — must  allow  herself  to 
be  guided  and  adored." 

He  came  close  to  her  again.  Any  passer-by  might 
have  supposed  that  they  were  both  looking  at  the  dis- 
tant boat  and  listening  to  the  pilgrimage  chant. 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  understand  why  you  made  that 
promise?"  he  said,  very  gently,  and  the  mere  self-con- 
trol of  his  voice  and  manner  carried  a  spell  with  it  for  the 
woman  beside  him.  "  It  was  wrung  out  of  you  by  kind- 
ness for  a  dying  man.  You  thought  I  should  never 
know,  or  I  should  never  claim  it.  Well,  I  am  selfish.  I 
take  advantage.  I  do  claim  it.  I  saw  Lord  Lackington 
only  a  few  hours  before  his  death.  'She  mustn't  be 
alone,'  he  said  to  me,  several  times.  And  then,  almost 
at  the  last,  '  Ask  her  again.  She'll  consider  it — she 
promised.' " 

Julie  turned  impetuously. 

406 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Neither  of  us  is  bound  by  that — neither  of  us." 

Delafield  smiled. 

"Does  that  mean  that  I  am  asking  you  now  because 
he  bade  me?" 

A  pause.  Julie  must  needs  raise  her  eyes  to  his.  She 
flushed  red  and  withdrew  them. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  a  long  breath,  "you  don't  mean 
that,  and  you  don't  think  it.  As  for  you — yes,  you  are 
bound!  Julie,  once  more  I  bring  you  my  plea,  and  you 
must  consider  it." 

"How  can  I  be  your  wife?"  she  said,  her  breast  heav- 
ing. "You  know  all  that  has  happened.  It  would  be 
monstrous." 

"Not  at  all,"  was  his  quiet  reply.  "  It  would  be  nat- 
ural and  right.  Julie,  it  is  strange  that  I  should  be  talk- 
ing to  you  like  this.  You're  so  much  cleverer  than  I — 
in  some  ways,  so  much  stronger.  And  yet,  in  others — 
you'll  let  me  say  it,  won't  you? — I  could  help  you.  I 
could  protect  you.     It's  all  I  care  for  in  the  world." 

"How can  I  be  your  wife?"  she  repeated,  passionately, 
wringing  her  hands. 

"Be  what  you  will — at  home.  My  friend,  comrade, 
housemate.  I  ask  nothing  more — nothing.' '  His  voice 
dropped,  and  there  was  a  pause.  Then  he  resumed. 
"But,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  make  me  your  servant 
and  your  husband!" 

"I  can't  condemn  you  to  such  a  fate."  she  cried. 
"You  know  where  my  heart  is." 

Delafield  did  not  waver. 

"I  know  where  your  heart  was,"  he  said,  with  firmness. 
"You  will  banish  that  man  from  your  thoughts  in  time. 
He  has  no  right  to  be  there.     I  take  all  the  risks — all." 

407 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

"Well,  at  least  for  you,  I  am  no  hypocrite,"  she  said, 
with  a  quivering  lip.     "You  know  what  I  am." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  I  am  at  your  feet." 

The  tears  dropped  from  Julie's  eyes.  She  turned  away 
and  hid  her  face  against  one  of  the  piers  of  the  wall. 

Delafield  attempted  no  caress.  He  quietly  set  him- 
self to  draw  the  life  that  he  had  to  offer  her,  the  com- 
radeship that  he  proposed  to  her.  Not  a  word  of  what 
the  world  called  his  "prospects"  entered  in.  She  knew 
very  well  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  of 
them.  Rather,  a  sort  of  ascetic  and  mystical  note  made 
itself  heard  in  all  he  said  of  the  future,  a  note  that  before 
now  had  fascinated  and  controlled  a  woman  whose  am- 
bition was  always  strangely  tempered  with  high,  poetical 
imagination. 

Yet,  ambitious  she  was,  and  her  mind  inevitably  sup- 
plied what  his  voice  left  unsaid. 

"He  will  have  to  fill  his  place  whether  he  wishes  it  or 
no,"  she  said  to  herself.  "And  if,  in  truth,  he  desires 
my  help — " 

Then  she  shrank  from  her  own  wavering.  Look  where 
she  would  into  her  life,  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  was  mon- 
strous and  out  of  joint. 

"You  don't  realize  what  you  ask,"  she  said,  at  last,  in 
despair.  "I  am  not  what  you  call  a  good  woman — you 
know  it  too  well.  I  don't  measure  things  by  your  stand- 
ards. I  am  capable  of  such  a  journey  as  you  found  me 
on.  I  can't  find  in  my  own  mind  that  I  repent  it  at  all. 
I  can  tell  a  lie — you  can't.  I  can  have  the  meanest  and 
most  sordi4  thoughts — you  can't.  Lady  Henry  thought 
me  an  intriguer — I  am  one.  It  is  in  my  blood.  And  I 
don't  know  whether,  in  the  end,  I  could  understand  your 

408 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

language  and  your  life.  And  if  I  don't,  I  shall  make 
you  miserable." 

She  looked  up,  her  slender  frame  straightening  under 
what  was,  in  truth,  a  noble  defiance. 

Delafield  bent  over  her  and  took  both  her  hands  forci- 
bly in  his  own. 

"If  all  that  were  true,  I  would  rather  risk  it  a  thou- 
sand times  over  than  go  out  of  your  life  again — a  stran- 
ger. Julie  you  have  done  mad  things  for  love — you 
should  know  what  love  is.  Look  in  my  face — there — 
your  eyes  in  mine !  Give  way !  The  dead  ask  it  of  you 
— and  it  is  God's  will." 

And  as,  drawn  by  the  last,  low-spoken  words,  Julie 
looked  up  into  his  face,  she  felt  herself  enveloped  by  a 
mystical  and  passionate  tenderness  that  paralyzed  her 
resistance.  A  force,  superhuman,  laid  its  grasp  upon  her 
will.  With  a  burst  of  tears,  half  in  despair,  half  in  revolt, 
she  submitted. 


XXII 

IN  the  first  week  of  May,  Julie  Le  Breton  married  Jacob 
Delafield  in  the  EngHsh  Church  at  Florence.  The 
Duchess  was  there.  So  was  the  Duke — a  sulky  and  ill- 
resigned  spectator  of  something  which  he  believed  to  be 
the  peculiar  and  mischievous  achievement  of  his  wife. 

At  the  church  door  Julie  and  Delafield  left  for  Camal- 
doh. 

"Well,  if  you  imagine  that  I  intend  to  congratulate 
you  or  anybody  else  upon  that  performance  you  are  very 
much  mistaken,"  said  the  Duke,  as  he  and  his  wife  drove 
back  to  the  "Grand  Bretagne"  together. 

"I  don't  den}^  it's — risky,"  said  the  Duchess,  her  hands 
on  her  lap,  her  eyes  dreamily  following  the  streets. 

"Risky!"  repeated  the  Duke,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"Well,  I  don't  want  to  speak  harshly  of  your  friends, 
Evelyn,  but  Miss  Le  Breton — " 

"Mrs.  Delafield,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Mrs.  Delafield,  then" — the  name  was  evidently  a 
difficult  mouthful — "seems  to  me  a  most  undisciplined 
and  unmanageable  woman.  Why  does  she  look  like  a 
tragedy  queen  at  her  marriage?  Jacob  is  twice  too  good 
for  her,  and  she'll  lead  him  a  life.  And  how  you  can 
reconcile  it  to  your  conscience  to  have  misled  me  so 
completely  as  you  have  in  this  matter,  I  really  can't  im- 
agine." 

410 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Misled  you?"  said  Evelyn. 

Her  innocence  was  really  a  little  hard  to  bear,  and  not 
even  the  beauty  of  her  blue  eyes,  now  happily  restored 
to  him,  could  appease  the  mentor  at  her  side. 

"You  led  me  plainly  to  believe,"  he  repeated,  with 
emphasis,  "that  if  I  helped  her  through  the  crisis  of 
leaving  Lady  Henry  she  would  relinquish  her  designs  on 
Delafield." 

"Did  I?"  said  the  Duchess.  And  putting  her  hands 
over  her  face  she  laughed  rather  hysterically.  "But 
that  wasn't  why  you  lent  her  the  house,  Freddie." 

"You  coaxed  me  into  it,  of  course,"  said  the  Duke. 

"No,  it  was  Julie  herself  got  the  better  of  you,"  said 
Evelyn,  triumphantly.  "You  felt  her  spell,  just  as  we 
all  do,  and  wanted  to  do  something  for  her." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  Duke,  determined  to 
admit  no  recollection  to  his  disadvantage.  "It  was 
your  doing  entirely." 

The  Duchess  thought  it  discreet  to  let  him  at  least 
have  the  triumph  of  her  silence,  smiling,  and  a  little  sar- 
castic though  it  were. 

"And  of  all  the  undeserved  good  fortune!"  he  re- 
sumed, feeling  in  his  irritable  disapproval  that  the  mor- 
al order  of  the  universe  had  been  somehow  trifled  with. 
"In  the  first  place,  she  is  the  daughter  of  people  who 
flagrantly  misconducted  themselves  —  that  apparently 
does  her  no  harm.  Then  she  enters  the  service  of  Lady 
Henry  in  a  confidential  position,  and  uses  it  to  work 
havoc  in  Lady  Henry's  social  relations.  That,  I  am 
glad  to  say,  has  done  her  a  little  harm,  although  not 
nearly  as  much  as  she  deserves.  And  finally  she  has  a 
most  discreditable  flirtation  with  a  man  already  en- 
11.— 13  411 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

gaged — to  her  own  cousin,  please  observe! — and  pulls 
wires  for  him  all  over  the  place  in  the  most  objectionable 
and  unwomanly  manner." 

"As  if  everybody  didn't  do  that!"  cried  the  Duchess. 
"You  know,  Freddie,  that  your  own  mother  always  used 
to  boast  that  she  had  made  six  bishops  and  saved  the 
Establishment." 

The  Duke  took  no  notice. 

"And  yet  there  she  is!  Lord  Lackington  has  left  her 
a  fortune — a  competence,  anyway.  She  marries  Jacob 
Delafield — rather  a  fool,  I  consider,  but  all  the  same 
one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  And  at  any  time, 
to  judge  from  what  one  hears  of  the  health  both  of 
Chudleigh  and  his  boy,  she  may  find  herself  Duchess  of 
Chudleigh." 

The  Duke  threw  himself  back  in  the  carrriage  with  the 
air  of  one  who  waits  for  Providence  to  reply. 

"Oh,  well,  3^ou  see,  you  can't  make  the  world  into  a 
moral  tale  to  please  you,"  said  the  Duchess,  absently. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  asked,  "Are  you  still  going  to 
let  them  have  the  house,  Freddie?" 

"  I  imagine  that  if  Jacob  Delafield  applies  to  me  to  let 
it  to  him,  that  I  shall  not  refuse  him,"  said  the  Duke, 
stiffly. 

The  Duchess  smiled  behind  her  fan.  Yet  her  tender 
heart  was  not  in  reality  very  happy  about  her  Julie.  She 
knew  well  enough  that  it  was  a  strange  marriage  of 
which  they  had  just  been  witnesses — a  marriage  con- 
taining the  seeds  of  many  untoward  things  only  too 
likely  to  develop  unless  fate  were  kinder  than  rash  mor- 
tals have  any  right  to  expect. 

"I  wish  to  goodness  Delafield  weren't  so  religious," 
412 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

murmured  the  Duchess,  fervently,  pursuing  her  own 
thoughts. 

"Evelyn!" 

"Well,  you  see,  Julie  isn't,  at  all,"  she  added,  hastily. 

"You  need  not  have  troubled  yourself  to  tell  me  that," 
was  the  Duke's  indignant  reply. 

After  a  fortnight  at  Camaldoli  and  Vallombrosa  the 
Delafields  turned  towards  Switzerland.  Julie,  who  was 
a  lover  of  Rousseau  and  Obermann,  had  been  also  busy 
with  the  letters  of  Byron.  She  wished  to  see  with  her 
own  eyes  St.  Gingolphe  and  Chillon,  Bevay  and  Glion. 

So  one  day  at  the  end  of  May  they  found  themselves 
at  Montreux.  But  Montreux  was  already  hot  and  crowd- 
ed, and  Julie's  eyes  turned  in  longing  to  the  heights. 
They  found  an  old  inn  at  Chamex,  whereof  the  garden 
commanded  the  whole  head  of  the  lake,  and  there  they 
settled  themselves  for  a  fortnight,  till  business,  in  fact, 
should  recall  Delafield  to  England.  The  Duke  of  Chud- 
leigh  had  shown  all  possible  kindness  and  cordiality  with 
regard  to  the  marriage,  and  the  letter  in  which  he  wel- 
comed his  cousin's  new  wife  had  both  touched  Julie's 
feelings  and  satisfied  her  pride.  "You  are  marrying  one 
of  the  best  of  men,"  wrote  this  melancholy  father  of  a 
dying  son.  "My  boy  and  I  owe  him  more  than  can  be 
written.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  for  those  he  loves 
he  grudges  nothing — no  labor,  no  sacrifice  of  himself. 
There  are  no  half-measures  in  his  affections.  He  has 
spent  himself  too  long  on  sick  and  sorry  creatures  like 
ourselves.  It  is  time  he  had  a  little  happiness  on  his 
own  account.  You  will  give  it  him,  and  Mervyn  and  I 
will  be  most  grateful  to  you.     If  joy  and  health  can 

413 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

never  be  ours,  I  am  not  yet  so  vile  as  to  grudge  them  to 
others.  God  bless  you!  Jacob  will  tell  you  that  my 
house  is  not  a  gay  one;  but  if  you  and  he  will  some- 
times visit  it,  you  will  do  something  to  lighten  its  gloom." 

Julie  wondered,  as  she  wrote  her  very  graceful  reply, 
how  much  the  Duke  might  know  about  herself.  Jacob 
had  told  his  cousin,  as  she  knew,  the  story  of  her  parent- 
age and  of  Lord  Lackington's  recognition  of  his  grand- 
daughter. But  as  soon  as  the  marriage  was  announced 
it  was  not  likely  that  Lady  Henry  had  been  able  to  hold 
her  tongue. 

A  good  many  interesting  tales  of  his  cousin's  bride 
had,  indeed,  reached  the  melancholy  Duke.  Lady  Henry 
had  done  all  that  she  conceived  it  her  duty  to  do,  fill- 
ing many  pages  of  note-paper  with  what  the  Duke  re- 
garded as  most  unnecessary  information. 

At  any  rate,  he  had  brushed  it  all  aside  with  the  im- 
patience of  one  for  whom  nothing  on  earth  had  now 
any  savor  or  value  beyond  one  or  two  indispensable 
affections.  "What's  good  enough  for  Jacob  is  good 
for  me,"  he  wrote  to  Lady  Henry,  "and  if  I  may  offer 
you  some  advice,  it  is  that  you  should  not  quarrel  with 
Jacob  about  a  matter  so  vital  as  his  marriage.  Into 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  story  you  tell  me,  I  really 
cannot  enter;  but  rather  than  break  with  Jacob  I  would 
welcome  anybody  he  chose  to  present  to  me.  And  in  this 
case  I  understand  the  lady  is  very  clever,  distinguished, 
and  of  good  blood  on  both  sides.  Have  you  had  no 
trouble  in  your  life,  my  dear  Flora,  that  you  can  make 
quarrels  with  a  light  heart?  If  so,  I  envy  you;  but  I 
have  neither  the  energy  nor  the  good  spirits  wherewith 
to  imitate  you." 

414 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Julie,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  this  correspondence, 
though  from  the  Duke's  letters  to  Jacob  she  divined  that 
something  of  the  kind  had  taken  place.  But  it  was 
made  quite  plain  to  her  that  she  was  to  be  spared  all  the 
friction  and  all  the  difficulty  which  may  often  attend  the 
entrance  of  a  person  hke  herself  within  the  circle  of  a 
rich  and  important  family  like  the  Delafields.  With 
Lady  Henry,  indeed,  the  fight  had  still  to  be  fought. 
But  Jacob's  mother,  influenced  on  one  side  by  her  son 
and  on  the  other  by  the  head  of  the  family,  accepted  her 
daughter-in-law  with  the  facile  kindliness  and  good  tem- 
per that  were  natural  to  her;  while  his  sister,  the  fair- 
haired  and  admirable  Susan,  owed  her  brother  too  much 
and  loved  him  too  well  to  be  other  than  friendly  to  his 
wife. 

No;  on  the  worldly  side  all  was  smooth.  The  mar- 
riage had  been  carried  through  with  ease  and  quietness 
The  Duke,  in  spite  of  Jacob's  remonstrances,  had  largely 
increased  his  cousin's  salary,  and  JuUe  was  already  en- 
joying the  income  left  her  by  Lord  Lackington.  She  had 
only  to  reappear  in  London  as  Jacob's  wife  to  resume  far 
more  than  her  old  social  ascendency.  The  winning 
cards  had  all  passed  into  her  hands,  and  if  now  there 
was  to  be  a  struggle  with  Lady  Henry,  Lady  Henry 
would  be  worsted. 

All  this  was  or  should  have  been  agreeable  to  the 
sensitive  nerves  of  a  woman  who  knew  the  worth  of 
social  advantages.  It  had  no  effect,  however,  on  the 
mortal  depression  which  was  constantly  Julie's  portion 
during  the  early  weeks  of  her  marriage. 

As  for  Delafield,  he  had  entered  upon  this  determin- 
ing experiment  of  his  life — a  marriage,  which  was  mere- 

415 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

]y  a  legalized  comradeship,  with  the  woman  he  adored — ' 
in  the  mind  of  one  resolved  to  pay  the  price  of  what  he 
had  done.  This  graceful  and  stately  woman,  with  her 
high  intelligence  and  her  social  gifts,  was  now  his  own 
property.  She  was  to  be  the  companion  of  his  days 
and  the  mistress  of  his  house.  But  although  he  knew 
well  that  he  had  a  certain  strong  hold  upon  her,  she  did 
not  love  him,  and  none  of  the  fusion  of  true  marriage  had 
taken  place  or  could  take  place.  So  be  it.  He  set  him- 
self to  build  up  a  relation  between  them  which  should 
justify  the  violence  offered  to  natural  and  spiritual  law. 
His  own  delicacy  of  feeling  and  perception  combined 
with  the  strength  of  his  passion  to  make  every  action  of 
their  common  day  a  symbol  and  sacrament.  That  her 
heart  regretted  Warkworth,  that  bitterness  and  longing, 
an  unspent  and  baffled  love,  must  be  constantly  over- 
shadowing her — these  things  he  not  only  knew,  he  was 
forever  reminding  himself  of  them,  driving  them,  as  it 
were,  into  consciousness,  as  the  ascetic  drives  the  spikes 
into  his  flesh.  His  task  was  to  comfort  her,  to  make  her 
forget,  to  bring  her  back  to  common  peace  and  cheerful- 
ness of  mind. 

To  this  end  he  began  with  appealing  as  much  as  pos- 
sible to  her  intelligence.  He  warmly  encouraged  her 
work  for  Meredith.  From  the  first  days  of  their  marriage 
he  became  her  listener,  scholar,  and  critic.  Himself  in- 
terested mainly  in  social,  economical,  or  religious  dis- 
cussion, he  humbly  put  himself  to  school  in  matters  of 
belles-lettres.  His  object  was  to  enrich  Julie's  daily  life 
with  new  ambitions  and  new  pleasiires,  which  might  re- 
place the  broodings  of  her  illness  and  convalescence,  and 
then,  to  make  her  feel  that  she  had  at  hand,  in  the  com- 

416 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

panion  of  that  life,  one  who  felt  a  natural  interest  in  all 
her  efforts,  a  natural  pride  in  all  her  successes. 

Alack!  the  calculation  was  too  simple — and  too  visible. 
It  took  too  little  account  of  the  complexities  of  Julie's 
nature,  of  the  ravages  and  the  shock  of  passion.  Julie 
herself  might  be  ready  enough  to  return  to  the  things  of 
the  mind,  but  they  were  no  sooner  offered  to  her,  as  it 
were,  in  exchange  for  the  perilous  delights  of  love,  than 
she  grew  dumbly  restive.  She  felt  herself,  also,  too  much 
observed,  too  much  thought  over,  made  too  often,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  the  subject  of  religious  or  mystical 
emotion. 

More  and  more,  also,  was  she  conscious  of  strangeness 
and  eccentricity  in  the  man  she  had  married.  It  often 
seemed  to  that  keen  and  practical  sense  which  in  her 
mingled  so  oddly  with  the  capacity  for  passion  that,  as 
they  grew  older,  and  her  mind  recovered  tone  and  bal- 
ance, she  would  probably  love  the  world  disastrously 
more  and  he  disastrously  less.  And  if  so,  the  gulf  be- 
tween them,  instead  of  closing,  could  but  widen. 

One  day — a  showery  day  in  early  June — she  was  left 
alone  for  an  hour,  while  Delafield  went  down  to  Mon- 
treux  to  change  some  circular  notes.  Julie  took  a  book 
from  the  table  and  strolled  out  along  the  lovely  road 
that  slopes  gently  downward  from  Charnex  to  the  old 
field-embowered  village  of  Brent. 

The  rain  was  just  over.  It  had  been  a  cold  rain,  and 
the  snow  had  crept  downward  on  the  heights,  and  had 
even  powdered  the  pines  of  the  Cubly.  The  clouds  were 
sweeping  low  in  the  west.  Towards  Geneva  the  lake 
was  mere  wide  and  featureless  space — a  cold  and  misty 
water,  melting  into  the  fringes  of  the  rain-clouds.    But  to 

417 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  east,  above  the  Rhone  valley,  the  sky  was  lifting;  and 
as  Julie  sat  down  upon  a  midway  seat  and  turned  herself 
eastward,  she  was  met  by  the  full  and  unveiled  glory  of 
the  higher  Alps — the  Rochers  de  Naye,  the  Velan,  the 
Dent  du  Midi.  On  the  jagged  peaks  of  the  latter  a 
bright  shaft  of  sun  was  playing,  and  the  great  white  or 
rock-ribbed  mass  raised  itself  above  the  mists  of  the 
lower  world,  once  more  unstained  and  triumphant. 

But  the  cold  bise  was  still  blowing,  and  Julie,  shivering, 
drew  her  wrap  closer  round  her.  Her  heart  pined  for 
Como  and  the  south;  perhaps  for  the  little  Duchess, 
who  spoiled  and  petted  her  in  the  common,  womanish 
ways. 

The  spring — a  second  spring — was  all  about  her;  but 
in  this  chilly  northern  form  it  spoke  to  her  with  none  of 
the  ravishment  of  Italy.  In  the  steep  fields  above  her 
the  narcissuses  were  bent  and  bowed  with  rain ;  the  red- 
browns  of  the  walnuts  glistened  in  the  wet  gleams  of 
sun;  the  fading  apple-blossom  beside  her  wore  a  melan- 
choly beauty;  only  in  the  rich,  pushing  grass,  with  its 
wealth  of  flowers  and  its  branching  cow-parsley,  was 
there  the  stubborn  life  and  prophecy  of  summer. 

Suddenly  Juhe  caught  up  the  book  that  lay  beside  her 
and  opened  it  with  a  hasty  hand.  It  was  one  of  that  set 
of  Saint-Simon  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and 
had  already  played  a  part  in  her  own  destiny. 

She  turned  to  the  famous  "  character"  of  the  Dauphin, 
of  that  model  prince,  in  whose  death  Saint-Simon,  and 
F^nelon,  and  France  herself,  saw  the  eclipse  of  all  great 
hopes. 

"A  prince,  affable,  gentle,  humane,  patient,  modest, 
full  of  compunctions,  and,  as  much  as  his  position  allowed 

418 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

— sometimes  beyond  it — humble,  and  severe  towards 
himself." 

Was  it  not  to  the  life?  "Affable,  doux,  huntain — 
patient,  modeste — humble  et  austere  pour  soi" — beyond 
what  was  expected,  beyond,  almost,  what  was  be- 
coming ? 

She  read  on  to  the  mention  of  the  Dauphine,  terri- 
fied, in  her  human  weakness,  of  so  perfect  a  husband,  and 
trying  to  beguile  or  tempt  him  from  the  heights;  to 
the  picture  of  Louis  Quatorze,  the  grandfather,  shamed 
in  his  worldly  old  age  by  the  presence  beside  him  of  this 
saintly  and  high-minded  youth;  of  the  Court,  looking 
forward  with  dismay  to  the  time  when  it  should  find 
itself  under  the  rule  of  a  man  who  despised  and  con- 
demned both  its  follies  and  its  passions,  until  she  reached 
that  final  rapture,  where,  in  a  mingled  anguish  and 
adoration,  Saint-Simon  bids  eternal  farewell  to  a  char- 
acter and  a  heart  of  which  France  was  not  worthy. 

The  lines  passed  before  her,  and  she  was  conscious, 
guiltily  conscious,  of  reading  them  with  a  double  mind. 

Then  she  closed  the  book,  held  by  the  thought  of  her 
husband — in  a  somewhat  melancholy  reverie. 

There  is  a  Catholic  word  with  which  in  her  convent 
youth  she  had  been  very  familiar — the  word  recueilli — 
"recollected."  At  no  time  had  it  sounded  kindly  in  her 
ears ;  for  it  implied  fetters  and  self  -  suppressions  —  of 
the  voluntary  and  spiritual  sort — wholly  unwelcome  to 
and  unvalued  by  her  own  temperament.  But  who  that 
knew  him  well  could  avoid  applying  it  to  Delafield?  A 
man  of  "recollection  "  living  in  the  eye  of  the  Eternal; 
keeping  a  guard  over  himself  in  the  smallest  matters  of 
thought  and  action ;  mystically  possessed  by  the  passion 

419 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

of  a  spiritual  ideal;  in  love  with  charity,  purity,  sim- 
plicity of  life. 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands  in  dreariness  of 
spirit.  Ultimately,  what  could  such  a  man  want  with 
her.''  What  had  she  to  give  him?  In  what  way  could 
she  ever  be  necessary  to  him?  And  a  woman,  even  in 
friendship,  must  feel  herself  that  to  be  happy. 

Already  this  daily  state  in  which  she  found  herself — 
of  owing  everything  and  giving  nothing — produced  in 
her  a  secret  irritation  and  repulsion ;  how  would  it  be  in 
the  years  to  come  ? 

"He  never  saw  me  as  I  am,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
looking  fretfully  back  to  their  past  acquaintance.  "I 
am  neither  as  weak  as  he  thinks  me — nor  as  clever.  And 
how  strange  it  is — this  tension  in  which  he  lives!" 

And  as  she  sat  there  idly  plucking  at  the  wet  grass, 
her  mind  was  overrun  with  a  motley  host  of  memories — 
some  absurd,  some  sweet,  some  of  an  austerity  that 
chilled  her  to  the  core.  She  thought  of  the  difficulty 
she  had  in  persuading  Delafield  to  allow  himself  even 
necessary  comforts  and  conveniences;  a  laugh,  involun- 
tary, and  not  without  tenderness,  crossed  her  face  as  she 
recalled  a  tale  he  had  told  her  at  Camaldoli,  of  the  con- 
tempt excited  in  a  young  footman  of  a  smart  house  by  the 
mediocrity  and  exiguity  of  his  garments  and  personal 
appointments  generally.  "I  felt  I  possessed  nothing 
that  he  would  have  taken  as  a  gift,"  said  Delafield,  with 
a  grin.     "  It  was  chastening." 

Yet  though  he  laughed,  he  held  to  it;  and  Julie  was 
already  so  much  of  the  wife  as  to  be  planning  how  to  coax 
him  presently  out  of  a  portmanteau  and  a  top-hat  that 
were  in  truth  a  disgrace  to  their  species. 

420 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

And  all  the  time  she  must  have  the  best  of  everything 
— a  maid,  luxurious  travelling,  dainty  food.  They  had 
had  one  or  two  wrestles  on  the  subject  already.  "Why 
are  you  to  have  all  the  high  thinking  and  plain  living  to 
yourself?"  she  had  asked  him.,  angrily,  only  to  be  met 
by  the  plea,  "Dear,  get  strong  first — then  you  shall  do 
what  you  like." 

But  it  was  at  La  Verna,  the  mountain  height  over- 
shadowed by  the  memories  of  St.  Francis,  that  she 
seemed  to  have  come  nearest  to  the  ascetic  and  mystical 
tendency  in  Delafield.  He  went  about  the  mountain- 
paths  a  transformed  being,  like  one  long  spiritually 
athirst  who  has  found  the  springs  and  sources  of  life. 
Julie  felt  a  secret  terror.  Her  impression  was  much 
the  same  as  Meredith's  —  as  of  "something  wearing 
through"  to  the  light  of  day.  Looking  back  she  saw 
that  this  temperament,  now  so  plain  to  view,  had  been 
always  there;  but  in  the  young  and  capable  agent  of  the 
Chudleigh  property,  in  the  Duchess's  cousin,  or  Lady 
Henry's  nephew,  it  had  passed  for  the  most  part  un- 
suspected. How  remarkably  it  had  developed ! — whither 
would  it  carry  them  both  in  the  future?  When  thinking 
about  it,  she  was  apt  to  find  herself  seized  with  a  sudden 
craving  for  Mayfair,  "little  dinners,"  and  good  talk. 

"What  a  pity  you  weren't  born  a  Catholic! — you 
might  have  been  a  religious,"  she  said  to  him  one  night 
at  La  Verna,  when  he  had  been  reading  her  some  of  the 
Fioretti  with  occasional  comments  of  his  own. 

But  he  had  shaken  his  head  with  a  smile. 

"You  see,  I  have  no  creed — or  next  to  none." 

The  answer  startled  her.  And  in  the  depths  of  his 
blue  eyes  there  seemed  to  her  to  be  hovering  a  swarm  of 

421 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

thoughts  that  would  not  let  themselves  loose  in  her 
presence,  but  were  none  the  less  the  true  companions  of 
his  mind.  She  saw  herself  a  moment  as  Elsa,  and  her 
husband  as  a  modern  Lohengrin,  coming  spiritually  she 
knew  not  whence,  bound  on  some  quest  mysterious  and 
unthinkable. 

"What  will  you  do,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "when  the 
dukedom  comes  to  you?" 

Delafield's  aspect  darkened  in  an  instant.  If  he  could 
have  shown  anger  to  her,  anger  there  would  have  been. 

"That  is  a  subject  I  never  think  of  or  discuss,  if  I  can 
help  it,"  he  said,  abruptly;  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  he 
pointed  out  that  the  sun  was  declining  fast  towards 
the  plain  of  the  Casentino,  and  they  were  far  from  their 
hotel. 

"  Inhuman! — unreasonable!"  was  the  cry  of  the  critical 
sense  in  her  as  she  followed  him  in  silence. 

Innumerable  memories  of  this  kind  beat  on  Julie's 
mind  as  she  sat  dreamily  on  her  bench  among  the  Swiss 
meadows.  How  natural  that  in  the  end  they  should 
sweep  her  by  reaction  into  imaginations  wholly  indiffer- 
ent— of  a  drum-and-trumpet  history,  in  the  actual  fight- 
ing world. 

.  .  .  Far,  far  in  the  African  desert  she  followed  the 
march  of  Warkworth's  little  troop. 

Ah,  the  blinding  light — the  African  scrub  and  sand — 
the  long,  single  line — the  native  porters  with  their  loads 
— the  handful  of  English  officers  with  that  slender  figure 
at  their  head — the  endless,  waterless  path  with  its  palms 
and  mangoes  and  mimosas — the  scene  rushed  upon  the 
inward  eye  and  held  it.     She  felt  the  heat,  the  thirst,  the 

422 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

weariness  of  bone  and  brain — all  the  spell  and  mystery^ 
of  the  unmapped,  unconquered  land. 

Did  he  think  of  her'  sometimes,  at  night,  under  the 
stars,  or  in  the  blaze  and  mirage  of  noon?  Yes,  yes;  he 
thought  of  her.  Each  to  the  other  their  thoughts  must 
travel  while  they  lived. 

In  Delafield's  eyes,  she  knew,  his  love  for  her  had  been 
mere  outrage  and  offence. 

Ah,  well,  he,  at  least,  had  needed  her.  He  had  desired 
only  very  simple,  earthy  things — money,  position,  success 
— things  it  was  possible  for  a  woman  to  give  him,  or  get 
for  him;  and  at  the  last,  though  it  were  only  as  a  traitor 
to  his  word  and  his  fiancee,  he  had  asked  for  love — asked 
commonly,  hungrily,  recklessly,  because  he  could  not 
help  it  —  and  then  for  pardon !  And  those  are  things 
the  memory  of  which  lies  deep,  deep  in  the  pulsing, 
throbbing  heart. 

At  this  point  she  hurriedly  checked  and  scourged  her- 
self, as  she  did  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

No,  no,  no!  It  was  all  over,  and  she  and  Jacob  would 
still  make  a  fine  thing  of  their  life  together.     Why  not? 

And  all  the  time  there  were  burning  hot  tears  in  her 
eyes;  and  as  the  leaves  of  Saint-Simon  passed  idly 
through  her  fingers,  the  tears  blotted  out  the  meadows 
and  the  flowers,  and  blurred  the  figure  of  a  young  girl 
who  was  slowly  mounting  the  long  slope  of  road  that 
led  from  the  village  of  Brent  towards  the  seat  on  which 
Julie  was  sitting. 

Gradually  the  figure  approached.  The  mist  cleared 
from  Julie's  eyes.  Suddenly  she  found  herself  giving  a 
close  and  passionate  attention  to  the  girl  upon  the  road. 

423, 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Her  form  was  slight  and  small,  under  her  shady  hat 
there  was  a  gleam  of  fair  hair  arranged  in  smooth,  shin- 
ing masses  about  her  neck  and  temples.  As  she  ap- 
proached Julie  she  raised  her  eyes  absently,  and  Julie 
saw  a  face  of  singular  and  delicate  beauty,  marred,  how- 
ever, by  the  suggestion  of  physical  fragility,  even  sickli- 
ness, which  is  carried  with  it.  One  might  have  thought 
it  a  face  blanched  by  a  tropical  climate,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment touched  into  faint  color  by  the  keen  Alpine  air. 
The  eyes,  indeed,  were  full  of  life;  they  were  no  sooner 
seen  but  they  defined  and  enforced  a  personality.  Eager, 
intent,  a  little  fretful,  they  expressed  a  nervous  energy 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  owner's  slender  physique. 
In  this,  other  bodily  signs  concurred.  As  she  perceived 
Julie  on  the  bench,  for  instance,  the  girl's  slight,  habitual 
frown  sharply  deepened;  she  looked  at  the  stranger  with 
keen  observation,  both  glance  and  gesture  betraying  a 
quick  and  restless  sensibility. 

As  for  Julie,  she  half  rose  as  the  girl  neared  her.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  lips  parted;  she  had  the  air  of 
one  about  to  speak.  The  girl  looked  at  her  in  a  little 
surprise  and  passed  on. 

She  carried  a  book  under  her  arm,  into  which  were 
thrust  a  few  just -opened  letters.  She  had  scarcely 
passed  the  bench  when  an  envelope  fell  out  of  the  book 
and  lay  unnoticed  on  the  road. 

Julie  drew  a  long  breath.  She  picked  up  the  envelope. 
It  lay  in  her  hand,  and  the  name  she  had  expected  to  see 
was  written  upon  it. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  Then  she  ran  after  the 
owner  of  the  letter. 

"You  dropped  this  on  the  road." 
424 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  girl  turned  hastily. 

"Thank  you  very  much.  I  am  sorry  to  have  given 
you  the  trouble — " 

Then  she  paused,  arrested  evidently  by  the  manner  in 
which  Julie  stood  regarding  her. 

"Did — did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me?"  she  said,  un- 
certainly. 

"You  are  Miss  Moffatt?" 

"Yes.  That  is  my  name.  But,  excuse  me,  I  am 
afraid  I  don't  remember  you."  The  words  were  spoken 
with  a  charming  sweetness  and  timidity. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Delafield." 

The  girl  started  violently. 

"Are  you?     I — I  beg  your  pardon!" 

She  stood  in  a  flushed  bewilderment,  staring  at  the 
lady  who  had  addressed  her,  a  troubled  consciousness 
possessing  itself  of  her  face  and  manner  more  and  more 
plainly  with  every  moment. 

Julie  asked  herself,  hurriedly:  "How  much  does  she 
know?  What  has  she  heard?"  But  aloud  she  gently 
said:  "I  thought  you  must  have  heard  of  me.  Lord 
Uredale  told  me  he  had  written — his  father  wished  it — 
to  Lady  Blanche.     Your  mother  and  mine  were  sisters." 

The  girl  shyly  withdrew  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  mother  told  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  mingled  fear  and 
recklessness  which  had  accompanied  Julie's  action  dis- 
appeared from  her  mind.  In  the  girl's  manner  there 
was  neither  jealousy  nor  hatred,  only  a  young  shrinking 
and  reserve. 

"May  I  walk  with  you  a  little?" 

"Please  do.     Are  you  staying  at  Montreux?" 
425 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"No;  we  are  at  Charnex — and  you?" 

"We  came  up  two  days  ago  to  a  little  pension  at  Brent. 
I  wanted  to  be  among  the  fields,  now  the  narcissuses 
are  out.  If  it  were  warm  weather  we  should  stay,  but 
mother  is  afraid  of  the  cold  for  me.     I  have  been  ill." 

"  I  heard  that,"  said  Julie,  in  a  voice  gravely  kind  and 
winning.  "That  was  why  your  mother  could  not  come 
home." 

The  girl's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears. 

"No;  poor  mother!  I  wanted  her  to  go — we  had  a 
good  nurse — but  she  would  not  leave  me,  though  she  was 
devoted  to  my  grandfather.     She — " 

"She  is  always  anxious  about  you?" 

"  Yes.  My  health  has  been  a  trouble  lately,  and  since 
father  died — " 

"She  has  onl}/'  you." 

They  walked  on  a  few  paces  in  silence.  Then  the  girl 
looked  up  eagerly. 

"You  saw  grandfather  at  the  last?  Do  tell  me  about 
it,  please.     My  uncles  write  so  little." 

Julie  obeyed  with  difficulty.  She  had  not  realized 
how  hard  it  would  be  for  her  to  talk  of  Lord  Lackington. 
But  she  described  the  old  man's  gallant  dying  as  best  she 
could;  while  Aileen  Moffatt  listened  with  that  manner  at 
once  timid  and  rich  in  feeling  which  seemed  to  be  her 
characteristic. 

As  they  neared  the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  road  be- 
gins to  incline  towards  Charnex,  Julie  noticed  signs  of 
fatigue  in  her  companion. 

"You  have  been  an  invalid,"  she  said.  "You  ought 
not  to  go  farther.  May  I  take  you  home?  Would  your 
mother  dislike  to  see  me?" 

426 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

The  girl  paused  perceptibly.     "Ah,  there  she  is!" 

They  had  turned  towards  Brent,  and  Julie  saw  coming 
towards  them,  with  somewhat  rapid  steps,  a  small,  elder- 
ly lady,  gray-haired,  her  features  partly  hidden  by  her 
country  hat. 

A  thrill  passed  through  Julie.  This  was  the  sister 
whose  name  her  mother  had  mentioned  in  her  last  hour. 
It  was  as  though  something  of  her  mother,  something 
that  must  throw  light  upon  that  mother's  life  and  being, 
were  approaching  her  along  this  Swiss  road. 

But  the  lady  in  question,  as  she  neared  them,  looked 
with  surprise,  not  unmingled  with  hauteur,  upon  her 
daughter  and  the  stranger  beside  her. 

"Aileen,  why  did  you  go  so  far?  You  promised  me 
only  to  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"I  am  not  tired,  mother.  Mother,  this  is  Mrs.  Dela- 
field.     You  remember,  Uncle  Uredale  wrote — " 

Lady  Blanche  Moffatt  stood  still.  Once  more  a  fear 
swept  through  Julie's  mind,  and  this  time  it  stayed. 
After  an  evident  hesitation,  a  hand  was  coldly  extended. 

"  How  do  you  do?  I  heard  from  my  brothers  of  your 
marriage,  but  they  said  you  were  in  Italy." 

"We  have  just  come  from  there." 

"And  your  husband?" 

"He  has  gone  down  to  Montreux,  but  he  should  be 
home  very  soon  now.  We  are  only  a  few  steps  from  our 
little  inn.  Would  you  not  rest  there?  Miss  Moffatt 
looks  very  tired." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lady  Blanche  was  considering 
her  daughter.  Julie  saw  the  trembling  of  her  wide,  ir- 
regular mouth,  of  which  the  lips  were  slightly  turned 
outward.  Finally  she  drew  her  daughter's  hand  into 
n.— 13  427 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

her  arm,  and  bent  anxiously  towards  her,  scrutinizing 
her  face. 

"Thank  you.  We  will  rest  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Can 
we  get  a  carriage  at  Charnex?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  if  you  will  wait  a  little  on  our  bal- 
cony." 

They  walked  on  towards  Charnex.  Lady  Blanche 
began  to  talk  resolutely  of  the  weather,  which  was,  in- 
deed, atrocious.  She  spoke  as  she  would  have  done  to 
the  merest  acquaintance.  There  was  not  a  word  of  her 
father;  not  a  word,  either,  of  her  brother's  letter,  or 
of  Julie's  relationship  to  herself.  Julie  accepted  the 
situation  with  perfect  composure,  and  the  three  kept 
up  some  sort  of  a  conversation  till  they  reached  the 
paved  street  of  Charnex  and  the  old  inn  at  its  lower 
end. 

Julie  guided  her  companions  through  its  dark  passages, 
till  they  reached  an  outer  terrace  where  there  were  a 
few  scattered  seats,  and  among  them  a  deck-chair  with 
cushions. 

"Please,"  said  Julie,  as  she  kindly  drew  the  girl  tow- 
ards it.  Aileen  smiled  and  yielded.  Julie  placed  her 
among  the  cushions,  then  brought  out  a  shawl,  and 
covered  her  warmly  from  the  sharp,  damp  air.  Aileen 
thanked  her,  and  lightly  touched  her  hand.  A  secret 
sympathy  seemed  to  have  suddenly  sprung  up  between 
them. 

Lady  Blanche  sat  stiffly  beside  her  daughter,  watching 
her  face.  The  warm  touch  of  friendliness  in  Aileen's 
manner  towards  Mrs.  Delafield  seemed  only  to  increase 
the  distance  and  embarrassment  of  her  own.  Julie  ap- 
peared to  be  quite  unconscious.     She  ordered  tea,  and 

428 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

made  no  further  allusion  of  any  kind  to  the  kindred 
they  had  in  common.  She  and  Lady  Blanche  talked  as 
strangers. 

Julie  said  to  herself  that  she  understood.  She  remem- 
bered the  evening  at  Crowborough  House,  the  spin- 
ster lady  who  had  been  the  Moffatts'  friend,  her  own 
talk  with  Evelyn.  In  that  way,  or  in  some  other,  the 
current  gossip  about  herself  and  Wark worth,  gossip  they 
had  been  too  mad  and  miserable  to  take  much  account 
of,  had  reached  Lady  Blanche.  Lady  Blanche  proba- 
bly abhorred  her;  though,  because  of  her  marriage,  there 
was  to  be  an  outer  civility.  Meanwhile  no  sign  what- 
ever of  any  angry  or  resentful  knowledge  betrayed  itself 
in  the  girl's  manner.  Clearly  the  mother  had  shielded 
her. 

Julie  felt  the  flutter  of  an  exquisite  relief.  She  stole 
many  a  look  at  Aileen,  comparing  the  reality  with  that 
old,  ugly  notion  her  jealousy  had  found  so  welcome — of 
the  silly  or  insolent  little  creature,  possessing  all  that  her 
betters  desired,  by  the  mere  brute  force  of  money  or  birth. 
And  all  the  time  the  reality  was  this — so  soft,  suppliant, 
ethereal!  Here,  indeed,  was  the  child  of  Warkworth's 
picture  —  the  innocent,  unknowing  child,  whom  their 
passion  had  sacrificed  and  betrayed.  She  could  see  the 
face  now,  as  it  lay  piteous,  in  Warkworth's  hand.  Then 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  original.  And  as  it  looked 
at  her  with  timidity  and  nascent  love  her  own  heart 
beat  wildly,  now  in  remorse,  now  in  a  reviving  jeal- 
ousy. 

Secretly,  behind  this  mask  of  convention,  were  they 
both  thinking  of  him?  A  girl's  thoughts  are  never  far 
from  her  lover;  and  Julie  was  conscious,  this  afternoon, 

429 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

of  a  strange   and   mysterious    preoccupation,  whereof 
Warkworth  was  the  centre. 


Gradually  the  great  mountains  at  the  head  of  the  lake 
freed  themselves  from  the  last  wandering  cloud-wreaths. 
On  the  rock  faces  of  the  Rochers  de  Naye  the  hanging 
pine-woods,  brushed  with  snow,  came  into  sight.  The 
white  walls  of  Glion  shone  faintly  out,  and  a  pearly  gold, 
which  was  but  a  pallid  reflection  of  the  Italian  glory,  dif- 
fused itself  over  mountain  and  lake.  The  sun  was  grudg- 
ing; there  was  no  caress  in  the  air.  Aileen  shivered  a 
little  in  her  shawls,  and  when  Julie  spoke  of  Italy  the 
girl's  enthusiasm  and  longing  sprang,  as  it  were,  to  meet 
her,  and  both  were  conscious  of  another  slight  link  be- 
tween them. 

Suddenly  a  sound  of  steps  came  to  them  from  below. 

"My  husband,"  said  Julie,  rising,  and,  going  to  the 
balustrade,  she  waved  to  Delafield,  who  had  come  up 
from  Montreux  by  one  of  the  steep  vineyard  paths.  "  I 
will  tell  him  you  are  here,"  she  added,  with  what  might 
have  been  taken  for  the  shyness  of  the  young  wife. 

She  ran  down  the  steps  leading  from  the  terrace  to  the 
lower  garden.     Aileen  looked  at  her  mother. 

"  Isn't  she  wonderful?"  she  said,  in  an  ardent  whisper, 
"I  could  watch  her  forever.  She  is  the  most  graceful 
person  I  ever  saw.     Mother,  is  she  like  Aunt  Rose?" 

Lady  Blanche  shook  her  head. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  she  said,  shortly,  "She  has  too 
much  manner  for  me." 

"Oh,  mother!"  And  the  girl  caught  her  mother's 
hand  in  caressing  remonstrance,  as  though  to  say:  "Dear 
little  mother,  you  must  like  her,  because  I  do;  and  you 

430 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

mustn't  think  of  Aunt  Rose,  and  all  those  terrible  things, 
except  for  pity." 

"Hush!"  said  Lady  Blanche,  smihng  at  her  a  little 
excitedly.     "Hush;  they're  coming!" 

Delafield  and  Julie  emerged  from  the  iron  staircase. 
Lady  Blanche  turned  and  looked  at  the  tall,  distin- 
guished pair,  her  ugly  lower  lip  hardening  ungraciously. 
But  she  and  Delafield  had  a  slight  previous  acquaintance, 
and  she  noticed  instantly  the  charming  and  solicitous 
kindness  with  which  he  greeted  her  daughter, 

"Julie  tells  me  Miss  Moffatt  is  still  far  from  strong," 
he  said,  returning  to  the  mother. 

Lady  Blanche  only  sighed  for  answer.  He  drew  a 
chair  beside  her,  and  they  fell  into  the  natural  talk  of 
people  who  belong  to  the  same  social  world,  and  are 
travelling  in  the  same  scenes. 

Meanwhile  Julie  was  sitting  beside  the  heiress.  Not 
much  was  said,  but  each  was  conscious  of  a  lively  interest 
in  the  other,  and  every  now  and  then  Julie  would  put  out 
a  careful  hand  and  draw  the  shawls  closer  about  the  girl's 
frail  form.  The  strain  of  guilty  compunction  that  enter- 
ed into  Julie's  feeling  did  but  make  it  the  more  sensitive. 
She  said  to  herself  in  a  vague  haste  that  now  she  would 
make  amends.     If  only  Lady  Blanche  were  willing — 

But  she  should  be  willing!  Julie  felt  the  stirrings  of 
the  old  self-confidence,  the  old  trust  in  a  social  ingenuity 
which  had,  in  truth,  rarely  failed  her.  Her  intriguing, 
managing  instinct  made  itself  felt — the  mood  of  Lady 
Henry's  companion. 

Presently,  as  they  were  talking,  Aileen  caught  sight  of 
an  English  newspaper  which  Delafield  had  brought  up 

431 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

from  Montreux.  It  lay  still  unopened  on  one  of  the 
tables  of  the  terrace. 

"Please  give  it  me,"  said  the  girl,  stretching  out  an 
eager  hand.  "  It  will  have  Tiny's  marriage,  mamma!  A 
cousin  of  mine,"  she  explained  to  Julie,  who  rose  to  hand 
it  to  her.     "A  very  favorite  cousin.     Oh,  thank  you." 

She  opened  the  paper.  Julie  turned  away,  that  she 
might  relieve  Lady  Blanche  of  her  teacup. 

Suddenly  a  cry  rang  out — a  cry  of  mortal  anguish. 
Two  ladies  who  had  just  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace 
from  the  hotel  drawing-room  turned  in  terror;  the  gar- 
dener who  was  watering  the  flower-boxes  at  the  farther 
end  stood  arrested. 

"Aileen!"  shrieked  Lady  Blanche,  running  to  her. 
"What— what  is  it?" 

The  paper  had  dropped  to  the  floor,  but  the  child  still 
pointed  to  it,  gasping. 

' '  Mother — mother ! ' ' 

Some  intuition  woke  in  Julie.  She  stood  dead-white 
and  dumb,  while  Lady  Blanche  threw  herself  on  her 
daughter. 

"Aileen,  darling,  what  is  it?" 

The  girl,  in  her  agony,  threw  her  arms  frantically 
round  her  mother,  and  dragged  herself  to  her  feet.  She 
stood  tottering,  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

"He's  dead,  mother!     He's — dead!" 

The  last  word  sank  into  a  sound  more  horrible  even 
than  the  first  cry.  Then  she  swayed  out  of  her  mother's 
arms.  It  was  Julie  who  caught  her,  who  laid  her  once 
more  on  the  deck-chair — a  broken,  shrunken  form,  in 
whom  all  the  threads  and  connections  of  life  had  sud- 
denly, as  it  were,  fallen  to  ruin.     Lady  Blanche  hung 

432 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

over  her,  pushing  Julie  away,  gathering  the  unconscious 
girl  madly  in  her  arms.  Delafield  rushed  for  water-and- 
brandy.  Julie  snatched  the  paper  and  looked  at  the 
telegrams. 

High  up  in  the  first  column  was  the  one  she  sought. 

"Cairo,  Jime  12. — Great  regret  is  felt  here  at  the  sudden 
and  tragic  news  of  Major  Warkworth's  death  from  fever, 
which  seems  to  have  occurred  at  a  spot  some  three  weeks' 
distance  from  the  coast,  on  or  about  May  25.  Letters  from 
the  officer  who  has  succeeded  him  in  the  command  of  the 
Mokembe  expedition  have  now  reached  Denga.  A  fort- 
night after  leaving  the  coast  Major  Warkworth  was  at- 
tacked with  fever;  he  made  a  brave  strugj;le  against  it,  but  it 
was  of  a  deadly  type,  and  in  less  than  a  week  he  succumbed. 
The  messenger  brought  also  his  private  papers  and  diaries, 
which  have  been  forwarded  to  his  representatives  in  Eng- 
land. Major  Warkworth  was  a  most  promising  and  able 
officer,  and  his  loss  will  be  keenly  felt." 

Julie  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her  swooning  cousin. 
Lady  Blanche,  meanwhile,  was  loosening  her  daughter's 
dress,  chafing  her  icy  hands,  or  moaning  over  her  in  a 
delirium  of  terror. 

"My  darling — my  darling!  Oh,  my  God!  Why  did 
I  allow  it?  Why  did  I  ever  let  him  come  near  her?  It 
was  my  fault — my  fault!     And  it's  killed  her!" 

And  clinging  to  her  child's  irresponsive  hands,  she 
looked  down  upon  her  in  a  convulsion  of  grief,  which  in- 
cluded not  a  shadow  of  regret,  not  a  gleam  of  pity  for 
anything  or  any  one  else  in  the  world  but  this  bone  of 
her  bone  and  flesh  of  her  flesh,  which  lay  stricken  there. 

But  Julie's  mind  had  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  the 
tragedy  beside  her.  It  had  passed  for  the  second  time 
28  433 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

into  the  grasp  of  an  illusion  which  possessed  itself  of  the 
whole  being  and  all  its  perceptive  powers.  Before  her 
wide,  terror-stricken  gaze  there  rose  once  more  the  same 
piteous  vision  which  had  tortured  her  in  the  crisis  of  her 
love  for  Warkworth.  Against  the  eternal  snows  which 
close  in  the  lake  the  phantom  hovered  in  a  ghastly  relief 
— emaciated,  with  matted  hair,  and  purpled  cheeks,  and 
eyes — not  to  be  borne! — expressing  the  dumb  anger  of 
a  man,  still  young,  who  parts  unwillingly  from  Hfe  in  a 
last  lonely  spasm  of  uncomforted  pain. 


XXIII 

IT  was  midnight  in  the  Httle  inn  at  Chamex.  The 
rain  which  for  so  many  nights  in  this  miserable  June 
had  been  beating  down  upon  the  village  had  at  last 
passed  away.  The  night  was  clear  and  still — a  night 
when  the  voice  of  mountain  torrents,  far  distant,  might 
reach  the  ear  suddenh'- — sharply  pure — from  the  very 
depths  of  silence. 

Julie  was  in  bed.  She  had  been  scarcely  aware  of  her 
maid's  help  in  undressing.  The  ordinary  life  was,  as 
it  were,  suspended.  Two  scenes  floated  alternately  be- 
fore her — one  the  creation  of  memory,  the  other  of  im- 
agination; and  the  second  was,  if  possible,  the  more  vivid, 
the  more  real  of  the  two.  Now  she  saw  herself  in  Lady 
Henry's  drawing-room;  Sir  Wilfrid  Bury  and  a  white- 
haired  general  were  beside  her.  The  door  opened  and 
Warkworth  entered — young,  handsome,  soldierly,  with 
that  boyish,  conquering  air  which  some  admired  and 
others  disliked.  His  eyes  met  hers,  and  a  glow  of  hap- 
piness passed  through  her. 

Then,  at  a  stroke,  the  London  drawing-room  melted 
away.  She  was  in  a  low  bell-tent.  The  sun  burned 
through  its  sides;  the  air  was  stifling.  She  stood  with 
two  other  men  and  the  doctor  beside  the  low  camp- 
bed  ;  her  heart  was  wrung  by  every  movement,  ev- 
ery sound;  she  heard  the  clicking  of  the  fan  in  the 

435 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

doctor's  hands,  she   saw  the   flies  on   the   poor,  damp 
brow. 

And  still  she  had  no  tears.  Only,  existence  seemed  to 
have  ended  in  a  gulf  of  horror,  where  youth  and  courage, 
repentance  and  high  resolve,  love  and  pleasure  were  all 
buried  and  annihilated  together. 

That  poor  girl  up-stairs!  It  had  not  been  possible  to 
take  her  home.  She  was  there  with  nurse  and  doctor, 
her  mother  hanging  upon  every  difficult  breath.  The 
attack  of  diphtheria  had  left  a  weakened  heart  and  ner- 
vous system;  the  shock  had  been  cruel,  and  the  doctor 
could  promise  nothing  for  the  future. 

"Mother— mother!  .  .  .  Dead!'' 

The  cry  echoed  in  Julie's  ears.  It  seemed  to  fill  the 
old,  low-ceiled  room  in  which  she  lay.  Her  fancy,  pre- 
ternaturally  alive,  heard  it  thrown  back  from  the  moun- 
tains outside  —  returned  to  her  in  wailing  from  the  in- 
finite depths  of  the  lake.  She  was  conscious  of  the  vast 
form.s  and  abysses  of  nature,  there  in  the  darkness,  be- 
yond the  walls  of  her  room,  as  something  hostile,  im- 
placable. .  .  . 

And  while  he  lay  there  dead,  under  the  tropical  sand, 
she  was  still  living  and  breathing  here,  in  this  old  Swiss 
inn — Jacob  Delafield's  wife,  at  least  in  name. 

There  was  a  knock  at  her  door.  At  first  she  did  not 
answer  it.  It  seemed  to  be  only  one  of  the  many  dream 
sounds  which  tormented  her  nerves.  Then  it  was  re- 
peated.    Mechanically  she  said  "Come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Delafield,  carrying  a  light,  which 
he  shaded  with  his  hand,  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"  May  I  come  and  talk  to  you?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  know  you  are  not  sleeping." 

436 


Ladg    Rose's   Daughter 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  entered  his  wife's  room. 
Through  all  her  misery,  Julie  felt  a  strange  thrill  as  her 
husband's  face  was  thus  revealed  to  her,  brightly  illu- 
mined, in  the  loneliness  of  the  night.  Then  the  thrill 
passed  into  pain — the  pain  of  a  new  and  sharp  per- 
ception. 

Delafield,  in  truth,  was  some  two  or  three  years 
younger  than  Wark worth.  But  the  sudden  impression 
on  Julie's  mind,  as  she  saw  him  thus,  was  of  a  man  worn 
and  prematurely  aged — markedly  older  and  graver,  even, 
since  their  marriage,  since  that  memorable  evening  by 
the  side  of  Como  when,  by  that  moral  power  of  which 
he  seemed  often  to  be  the  mere  channel  and  organ,  he 
had  overcome  her  own  will  and  linked  her  life  with  his. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  kind  of  terror.  Why  was  he 
so  pale — an  embodied  grief?  Warkworth's  death  was 
not  a  mortal  stroke  for  him. 

He  came  closer,  and  still  Julie's  eyes  held  him.  Was 
it  her  fault,  this — this  shadowed  countenance,  these  sug- 
gestions of  a  dumb  strain  and  conflict,  which  not  even 
his  strong  youth  could  bear  without  betrayal?  Her 
heart  cried  out,  first  in  a  tragic  impatience;  then  it  melt- 
ed within  her  strangely,  she  knew  not  how. 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  held  out  her  hands.  He  thought 
of  that  evening  in  Heribert  Street,  after  Wark  worth  had 
left  her,  when  she  had  been  so  sad  and  yet  so  docile. 
The  same  yearning,  the  same  piteous  agitation  was  in 
her  attitude  now. 

He  knelt  down  beside  the  bed  and  put  his  arms  roiind 
her.  She  clasped  her  hands  about  his  neck  and  hid  her 
face  on  his  shoulder.  There  ran  through  her  the  first 
long  shudder  of  weeping. 

437 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"He  was  so  young!"  he  heard  her  say  through  sobs. 
"So  young!" 

He  raised  his  hand  and  touched  her  hair  tenderly. 

"He  died  serving  his  country,"  he  said,  commanding 
his  voice  with  difficulty.  "And  you  grieve  for  him  like 
this!     I  can't  pity  him  so  much." 

"You  thought  ill  of  him  —  I  know  you  did."  She 
spoke  between  deep,  sobbing  breaths.  "  But  he  wasn't — 
he  wasn't  a  bad  man." 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillow  and  the  tears  rained  down 
her  cheeks. 

Delafield  kissed  her  hand  in  silence. 

"Some  day — I'll  tell  you,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

"Yes,  you  shall  tell  me.     It  would  help  us  both." 

"I'll  prove  to  you  he  wasn't  vile.  When — when  he 
proposed  that  to  me  he  was  distracted.  So  was  I.  How 
could  he  break  off  his  engagement  ?  Now  you  see  how 
she  loved  him.  But  we  couldn't  part — we  couldn't  say 
good-bye.  It  had  all  come  on  us  unawares.  We  want- 
ed to  belong  to  each  other — just  for  two  day.s — and  then 
part  forever.     Oh,  I'll  tell  you — " 

"You  shall  tell  me  all — here!"  he  said,  firmly,  crushing 
her  delicate  hands  in  his  own  against  his  breast,  so  that 
she  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Give  me  my  hand.  I'll  show  you  his  letter — his  last 
letter  to  me."  And,  trembling,  she  drew  from  under  her 
pillow  that  last  scrawled  letter,  written  from  the  squalid 
hotel  near  the  Gare  de  Sceaux. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  she  placed  it  in  Delafield's 
hands  than  she  was  conscious  of  new  forces  of  feeling  in 
herself  which  robbed  the  act  of  its  simplicity.  She  had 
meant  to  plead  her  lover's  cause  and  her  own  with  the 

438 


Lady    Rose's   Daughter 

friend  who  was  nominally  her  husband.     Her  action  had 
been  a  cry  for  sympathy,  as  from  one  soul  to  another. 

But  as  Delafield  took  the  letter  and  began  to  read,  her 
pulses  began  to  flutter  strangely.  She  recalled  the 
phrases  of  passion  which  the  letter  contained.  She  be- 
came conscious  of  new  fears,  new  compunctions. 

For  Delafield,  too,  the  moment  was  one  of  almost  in- 
tolerable complexity.  This  tender  intimacy  of  night — 
the  natural  intimacy  of  husband  and  wife;  this  sense, 
which  would  not  be  denied,  however  sternly  he  might 
hold  it  in  check,  of  her  dear  form  beside  him;  the  little 
refinements  and  self-revelations  of  a  woman's  room;  his 
half-rights  towards  her,  appealing  at  once  to  love,  and 
to  the  memory  of  that  solemn  pledge  by  which  he  had 
won  her — what  man  who  deserved  the  name  but  must 
be  conscious,  tempestuously  conscious,  of  such  thoughts 
and  facts? 

And  then,  wrestling  with  these  smarts,  these  impulses, 
belonging  to  the  natural,  physical  life,  the  powers  of  the 
moral  being  —  compassion,  self-mastery,  generosity; 
while  strengthening  and  directing  all,  the  man  of  faith 
was  poignantly  aware  of  the  austere  and  tender  voices  of 
religion. 

Amid  this  play  of  influences  he  read  the  letter,  still 
kneeling  beside  her  and  holding  her  fingers  clasped  in  his. 
She  had  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  still,  save  for  the  occa- 
sional tremulous  movement  of  her  free  hand,  which  dried 
the  tears  on  her  cheek. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  at  last,  with  a  voice  that  wav- 
ered, as  he  put  the  letter  down.  "Thank  you.  It  was 
good  of  you  to  let  me  see  it.  It  changes  all  my  thoughts 
of  him  henceforward.     If  he  had  lived — " 

439 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"But  he's  dead!  He's  dead!"  cried  Julie,  in  a  sud- 
den agony,  wrenching  her  hand  from  his  and  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillow.  "Just  when  he  wanted  to  live. 
Oh,  my  God — my  God!  No,  there's  no  God — nothing 
that  cares — that  takes  any  notice!" 

She  was  shaken  by  deep,  convulsive  weeping.  Dela- 
field  soothed  her  as  best  he  could.  And  presently  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  with  a  quick,  piteous  gesture,  and 
touched  his  face. 

"You,  too!  What  have  I  done  to  you?  How  you 
looked,  just  now!  I  bring  a  curse.  Why  did  you  want 
to  marry  me?  I  can't  tear  this  out  of  my  heart  —  I 
can't!" 

And  again  she  hid  herself  from  him.  Delafield  bent 
over  her. 

"Do  you  imagine  that  I  should  be  poor-souled  enough 
to  ask  you?" 

Suddenly  a  wild  feeling  of  revolt  ran  through  Julie's 
mind.  The  loftiness  of  his  mood  chilled  her.  An  atti- 
tude more  weakly,  passionately  human,  a  more  selfish 
pity  for  himself  would,  in  truth,  have  served  him  better. 
Had  the  pain  of  the  living  man  escaped  his  control, 
avenging  itself  on  the  supremacy  that  death  had  now 
given  to  the  lover,  Delafield  might  have  found  another 
Julie  in  ^his  arms.  As  it  was,  her  husband  seemed  to 
her  perhaps  less  than  man,  in  being  more  ;  she  ad- 
mired unwillingly,  and  her  stormy  heart  withdrew 
itself. 

And  when  at  last  she  controlled  her  weeping,  and  it 
became  evident  to  him  that  she  wished  once  more  to  be 
alone,  his  sensitiveness  perfectly  divined  the  secret  re- 
action in  her.     He  rose  from  his  place  beside  her  with  a 

440 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

deep,  involuntary  sigh.  She  heard  it,  but  only  to  shrink 
away. 

"You  will  sleep  a  little?"  he  said,  looking  down  upon 
her. 

"I  will  try,  moil  ami." 

"  If  you  don't  sleep,  and  would  like  me  to  read  to  you, 
call  me.     I  am  in  the  next  room." 

She  thanked  him  faintly,  and  he  went  away.  At  the 
door  he  paused  and  came  back  again. 

"To-night" — he  hesitated — "while  the  doctors  were 
here,  I  ran  down  to  Montreux  by  the  short  path  and 
telegraphed.  The  consul  at  Zanzibar  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  I  asked  him  for  more  particulars  at  once, 
by  wire.  But  the  letters  can't  be  here  for  a  fort- 
night." 

"I  know.     You're  very,  very  good." 

Hour  after  hour  Delafield  sat  motionless  in  his  room, 
till  "high  in  the  Valais  depths  profound"  he  "saw  the 
morning  break." 

There  was  a  little  balcony  at  his  command,  and  as  he 
noiselessly  stepped  out  upon  it,  between  three  and  four 
o'clock,  he  felt  himself  the  solitary  comrade  of  the  mist- 
veiled  lake,  of  those  high,  rosy  mountains  on  the  eastern 
verge,  the  first  throne  and  harbor  of  the  light — of  the 
lower  forest-covered  hills  that  "took  the  morning,"  one 
by  one,  in  a  glorious  and  golden  succession.  All  was 
fresh,  austere,  and  vast — the  spaces  of  the  lake,  the  dis- 
tant hollows  of  high  glaciers  filled  with  purple  shadow, 
the  precipices  of  the  Rochers  de  Naye,  where  the  new 
snow  was  sparkling  in  the  sun,  the  cool  wind  that  blew 
towards  him  from  the  gates  of  Italy,  down  the  winding 

441 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

recesses  of  that  superb  valley  which  has  been  a  thorough- 
fare of  nations  from  the  beginning  of  time. 

Not  a  boat  on  the  wide  reaches  of  the  lake ;  not  a  voice 
or  other  sound  of  human  toil,  either  from  the  vineyards 
below  or  the  meadows  above.  Meanwhile  some  instinct, 
perhaps  also  some  faint  movements  in  her  room,  told  him 
that  Julie  was  no  less  wakeful  than  himself.  And  was 
not  that  a  low  voice  in  the  room  above  him — the  trained 
voice  and  footsteps  of  a  nurse?  Ah,  poor  Httle  heiress, 
she,  too,  watched  with  sorrow! 

A  curious  feeling  of  shame,  of  self-depreciation  crept 
into  his  heart.  Surely  he  himself  of  late  had  been  lying 
down  with  fear  and  rising  up  with  bitterness?  Never  a 
day  had  passed  since  they  had  reached  Switzerland  but 
he,  a  man  of  strong  natural  passions,  had  bade  himself 
face  the  probable  truth  that,  by  a  kind  of  violence,  he 
had  married  a  woman  who  would  never  love  him — had 
taken  irrevocably  a  false  step,  only  too  likely  to  be  fatal 
to  himself,  intolerable  to  her. 

Nevertheless,  steeped  as  he  had  been  in  sadness,  in 
foreboding,  and,  during  this  by-gone  night,  in  passionate 
envy  of  the  dead  yet  beloved  Wark worth,  he  had  never 
been  altogether  unhappy.  That  mysterious  It — that 
other  divine  self  of  the  mystic — God — the  enwrapping, 
sheltering  force — had  been  with  him  always.  It  was 
with  him  now — it  spoke  from  the  mysterious  color  and 
light  of  the  dawn. 

How,  then,  could  he  ever  equal  Julie  in  experience,  in 
the  true  and  poignant  feeling  of  any  grief  whatever? 
His  mind  was  in  a  strange,  double  state.  It  was  like 
one  who  feels  himself  unfairly  protected  by  a  magic  ar- 
mor; he  would  almost  throw  it  aside  in  a  remorseful 

442 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

eagerness  to  be  with  his  brethren,  and  as  his  brethren, 
in  the  sore  weakness  and  darkness  of  the  human  com- 
bat; and  then  he  thinks  of  the  hand  that  gave  the 
shield,  and  his  heart  melts  in  awe. 

''Friend  of  my  soul  and  of  the  world,  make  me  thy  tool 
— thy  instrument  I  Thou  art  Love  !  Speak  through  me  ! 
Draw  her  heart  to  mine.'' 

At  last,  knowing  that  there  was  no  sleep  in  him,  and 
realizing  that  he  had  brooded  enough,  he  made  his  way- 
out  of  the  hotel  and  up  through  the  fresh  and  dew- 
drenched  meadows,  where  the  haymakers  were  just  ap- 
pearing, to  the  Les  Avants  stream.  A  plunge  into  one 
of  its  cool  basins  retempered  the  whole  man.  He  walked 
back  through  the  scented  field-paths,  resolutely  restrain- 
ing his  mind  from  the  thoughts  of  the  night,  hammering 
out,  indeed,  in  his  head  a  scheme  for  the  establishment 
of  small  holdings  on  certain  derelict  land  in  Wiltshire 
belongmg  to  his  cousin. 

As  he  was  descending  on  Charnex,  he  met  the  post- 
man and  took  his  letters.  One  among  them,  from  the 
Duke  of  Chudleigh,  contained  a  most  lamentable  account 
of  Lord  Elmira.  The  father  and  son  had  returned  to 
England,  and  an  angry,  inclement  May  had  brought  a 
touch  of  pneumonia  to  add  to  all  the  lad's  other  woes. 
In  itself  it  was  not  much — was,  indeed,  passing  away. 
"  But  it  has  used  up  most  of  his  strength,"  said  the  Duke, 
"and  you  know  whether  he  had  any  to  waste.  Don't 
forget  him.       He  constantly  thinks  and  talks  of  you." 

Delafield  restlessly  wondered  when  he  could  get  home. 
But  he  realized  that  Julie  would  now  feel  herself  trag- 
ically linked  to  the  Moffatts,  and  how  could  he  leave  her? 
u.— 14  443 


Ladij    Rose's    Daughter 

He  piteously  told  himself  that  here,  and  now,  was  his 
chance  with  her.  As  he  bore  himself  now  towards  her, 
in  this  hour  of  her  grief  for  Warkworth,  so,  perhaps, 
would  their  future  be. 

Yet  the  claims  of  kindred  were  strong.  He  suffered 
much  inward  distress  as  he  thought  of  the  father  and  son, 
and  their  old  touching  dependence  upon  him.  Chud- 
leigh,  as  Jacob  knew  well,  was  himself  incurably  ill. 
Could  he  long  survive  his  poor  boy? 

And  so  that  other  thought,  which  Jacob  spent  so  much 
ingenuity  in  avoiding,  rushed  upon  him  unawares.  The 
near,  inevitable  expectation  of  the  famous  dukedom, 
which,  in  the  case  of  almost  any  other  man  in  England, 
must  at  least  have  quickened  the  blood  with  a  natural 
excitement,  produced  in  Delafield's  mind  a  mere  dull 
sense  of  approaching  torment.  Perhaps  there  was  some- 
thing non-sane  in  his  repulsion,  something  that  linked 
itself  with  his  father's  "queerness,"  or  the  bigotry  and 
fanaticism  of  his  grandmother,  the  Evangelical  Duchess, 
with  her  "swarm  of  parsons,"  as  Sir  Wilfrid  remembered 
her.  The  oddity,  which  had  been  violent  or  brutal  in 
earlier  generations,  showed  itself  in  him,  one  might  have 
said,  in  a  radical  transposition  of  values,  a  singularity  of 
criterion,  which  the  ordinary  robust  Englishman  might 
very  well  dismiss  with  impatience  as  folly  or  cant. 

Yet  it  was  neither;  and  the  feeling  had,  in  truth,  its 
own  logic  and  history.  He  had  lived  from  his  youth  up 
among  the  pageants  of  rank  and  possession.  They  had 
no  glamour  for  him;  he  realized  their  burdens,  their  inef- 
fectiveness for  all  the  more  precious  kinds  of  happiness — 
how  could  he  not,  with  these  two  forlorn  figures  of  Chud- 
leigh  and  his  boy  always  before  him?     As  for  imagina- 

444 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

tion  and  poetry,  Delafield,  with  a  mind  that  was  either 
positive  or  mystical — the  mind,  one  might  say,  of  the 
land-agent  or  the  saint — failed  to  see  where  they  came  in. 
Family  tradition,  no  doubt,  carries  a  thrill.  But  what 
thrill  is  there  in  the  mere  possession  of  a  vast  number  of 
acres  of  land,  of  more  houses,  new  and  old,  than  any 
human  being  can  possibly  live  in,  of  more  money  than 
any  reasonable  man  can  ever  spend,  and  more  responsi- 
bilities than  he  can  ever  meet?  Such  things  often  seem- 
ed to  Delafield  pure  calamity — mere  burdens  upon  life 
and  breath.  That  he  could  and  must  be  forced,  some 
time,  by  law  and  custom,  to  take  them  up,  was  nothing 
but  a  social  barbarity. 

Mingled  with  all  which,  of  course,  was  his  passionate 
sense  of  spiritual  democracy.  To  be  throned  apart,  like 
a  divine  being,  surrounded  by  the  bought  homage  of 
one's  fellows,  and  possessed  of  more  power  than  a  man 
can  decently  use,  was  a  condition  which  excited  in  Dela- 
field the  same  kind  of  contemptuous  revolt  that  it  would 
have  excited  in  St.  Francis.  "Be  not  ye  called  master" — 
a  Christian  even  of  his  transcendental  and  heterodox 
sort,  if  he  were  a  Christian,  must  surely  hold  these  words 
in  awe,  at  least  so  far  as  concerned  any  mastery  of  the 
external  or  secular  kind.  To  masteries  of  another  order 
the  saint  has  never  been  disinclined. 

As  he  once  more  struck  the  village  street,  this  familiar 
whirl  of  thoughts  was  buzzing  in  Delafield's  mind, 
pierced,  however,  by  one  sharper  and  newer.  Julie! 
Did  he  know — had  he  ever  dared  to  find  out — how  she 
regarded  this  future  which  was  overtaking  them?  She 
had  tried  to  sound  him;  she  had  never  revealed  herself. 

In  Lady  Henry's  house  he  had  often  noticed  in  Jvilie 

445 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

that  she  had  an  imaginative  tenderness  for  rank  or  great 
fortune.  At  first  it  had  seemed  to  him  a  woman's  nat- 
ural romanticism;  then  he  explained  it  to  himself  as 
closely  connected  with  her  efforts  to  serve  Warkworth. 

But  suppose  he  were  made  to  feel  that  there,  after  all, 
lay  her  compensation?  She  had  submitted  to  a  loveless 
marriage  and  lost  her  lover;  but  the  dukedom  was  to 
make  amends.  He  knew  well  that  it  would  be  so  with 
nine  women  out  of  ten.  But  the  bare  thought  that  it 
might  be  so  with  Julie  maddened  him.  He  then  was  to 
be  for  her,  in  the  future,  the  mere  symbol  of  the  vulgarer 
pleasures  and  opportunities,  while  Warkworth  held  her 
heart  ? 

Nay! 

He  stood  still,  strengthening  in  himself  the  glad  and 
sufficient  answer.  She  had  refused  him  twice — knowing 
all  his  circumstances.  At  this  moment  he  adored  her 
doubly  for  those  old  rebuffs. 

Within  twenty  -  four  hours  Delafield  had  received  a 
telegram  from  his  friend  at  Zanzibar.  For  the  most 
part  it  recapitulated  the  news  already  sent  to  Cairo,  and 
thence  transmitted  to  the  English  papers.  But  it  added 
the  information  that  Warkworth  had  been  buried  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  certain  village  on  the  caravan  route  to 
Mokembe,  and  that  special  pains  had  been  taken  to  mark 
the  spot.  And  the  message  concluded:  "Fine  fellow. 
Hard  luck.     Everybody  awfully  sorry  here." 

These  words  brought  Delafield  a  sudden  look  of  pas- 
sionate gratitude  from  Julie's  dark  and  sunken  eyes.  She 
rested  her  face  against  his  sleeve  and  pressed  his  hand. 

Lady  Blanche  also  wept  over  the  telegram,  exclaiming 

446 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

that  she  had  always  believed  in  Henry  Warkworth,  and 
now,  perhaps,  those  busybodies  who  at  Simla  had  been 
pleased  to  concern  themselves  with  her  affairs  and 
Aileen's  would  see  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves. 

To  Delafield's  discomfort,  indeed,  she  poured  out  upon 
him  a  stream  of  confidences  he  would  have  gladly  avoid- 
ed. He  had  brought  the  telegram  to  her  sitting-room. 
In  the  room  adjoining  it  was  Aileen,  still,  according  to 
her  mother's  account,  very  ill,  and  almost  speechless. 
Under  the  shadow  of  such  a  tragedy  it  seemed  to  him 
amazing  that  a  mother  could  find  words  in  which  to  tell 
her  daughter's  story  to  a  comparative  stranger.  Lady 
Blanche  appeared  to  him  an  ill-balanced  and  foolish 
woman;  a  prey,  on  the  one  hand,  to  various  obscure 
jealousies  and  antagonisms,  and  on  the  other  to  a  ro- 
mantic and  sentimental  temper  Vv-hich,  once  roused, 
gloried  in  despising  "the  world,"  by  which  she  generally 
meant  a  very  ordinary  degree  of  prudence. 

She  was  in  chronic  disagreement,  it  seemed,  with  her 
daughter's  guardians,  and  had  been  so  from  the  first  mo- 
ment of  her  widowhood,  the  truth  being  that  she  was 
jealous  of  their  legal  powers  over  Aileen's  fortune  and 
destiny,  and  determined,  notwithstanding,  to  have  her 
own  way  with  her  own  child.  The  wilfulness  and  caprice 
of  the  father,  which  had  taken  such  strange  and  desper- 
ate forms  in  Rose  Delaney,  appeared  shorn  of  all  its  at- 
traction and  romance  in  the  smaller,  more  conventional, 
and  meaner  egotisms  of  Lady  Blanche. 

And  yet,  in  her  own  way,  she  was  full  of  heart.  She 
lost  her  head  over  a  love  affair.  She  could  deny  Aileen 
nothing.  That  was  what  her  casual  Indian  acquaint- 
ances  meant   by   calling  her   "sweet."     When   Wark- 

447 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

worth's  attentions,  pushed  with  an  ardor  which  would 
have  driven  any  prudent  mother  to  an  instant  departure 
from  India,  had  made  a  timid  and  charming  child  of 
eighteen  the  talk  of  Simla,  Lady  Blanche,  excited  and 
dishevelled — was  it  her  personal  untidiness  which  ac- 
counted for  the  other  epithet  of  "quaint,"  which  had 
floated  to  the  Duchess's  ear,  and  been  by  her  reported 
to  Julie? — refused  to  break  her  daughter's  heart.  Wark- 
worth,  indeed,  had  begun  long  before  by  flattering  the 
mother's  vanity  and  sense  of  possession,  and  she  now 
threw  herself  hotly  into  his  cause  as  against  Aileen's 
odious  trustees. 

They,  of  course,  always  believed  the  worst  of  every- 
body. As  for  her,  all  she  wanted  for  the  child  was  a 
good  husband.  Was  it  not  better,  in  a  world  of  fortune- 
hunters,  that  Aileen,  with  her  half-million,  should  marry 
early?  Of  money,  she  had,  one  would  think,  enough.  It 
was  only  the  greed  of  certain  persons  which  could  possi- 
bly desire  more.  Birth?  The  young  man  was  honor- 
ably born,  good-looking,  well  mannered.  What  did  you 
want  more?  She  accepted  a  democratic  a.ge;  and  the  ob- 
stacles thrown  by  Aileen's  guardians  in  the  way  of  an 
immediate  engagement  between  the  young  people  ap- 
peared to  her,  so  she  declared,  either  vulgar  or  ridiculous. 

Well,  poor  lady,  she  had  suffered  for  her  whims.  First 
of  all,  her  levity  had  perceived,  with  surprise  and  terror, 
the  hold  that  passion  was  taking  on  the  delicate  and  sen- 
sitive nature  of  Aileen.  This  young  girl,  so  innocent  and 
spotless  in  thought,  so  virginally  sweet  in  manner,  so 
guileless  in  action,  developed  a  power  of  loving,  an  ab- 
sorption of  the  whole  being  in  the  beloved,  such  as  our 
modem  world  but  rarely  sees. 

448 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

She  lived,  she  breathed  for  Warkworth.  Her  health, 
always  frail,  suffered  from  their  separation.  She  be- 
came a  thin  and  frail  vision — a  "gossamer  girl  "  indeed. 
The  ordinary  life  of  travel  and  society  lost  all  hold  upon 
her;  She  passed  through  it  in  a  mood  of  weariness  and 
distaste  that  was  in  itself  a  danger  to  vital  force.  The 
mother  became  desperately  alarmed,  and  made  a  num- 
ber of  flurried  concessions.  Letters,  at  any  rate,  should 
be  allowed,  in  spite  of  the  guardians,  and  without  their 
knowledge.  Yet  each  letter  caused  emotions  which  ran 
like  a  storm-wind  through  the  child's  fragile  being,  and 
seemed  to  exhaust  the  young  life  at  its  source.  Then 
came  the  diphtheria,  acting  with  poisonous  effect  on  a 
nervous  system  already  overstrained. 
.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  mother's  anxieties  there  burst 
upon  her  the  sudden,  incredible  tale  that  Warkworth — 
to  whom  she  herself  was  writing  regularly,  and  to  whom 
Aileen,  from  her  bed,  was  sending  Httle  pencilled  notes, 
sweetly  meant  to  comfort  a  sighing  lover  —  had  been 
entangling  himself  in  London  with  another,  a  Miss  Le 
Breton,  positively  a  nobody,  as  far  as  birth  and  position 
were  concerned,  the  paid  companion  of  Lady  Henry 
Delafield,  and  yet,  as  it  appeared,  a  handsome,  in- 
triguing, unscrupulous  hussy,  just  the  kind  of  hawk  to 
snatch  a  morsel  from  a  dove's  mouth — a  woman,  in  fact, 
with  whom  a  httle  bread-and-butter  girl  like  Aileen 
might  very  well  have  no  chance. 

Emily  Lawrence's  letter,  in  the  tone  of  the  candid  friend, 
written  after  her  evening  at  Crowborough  House,  had 
roused  a  mingled  anguish  and  fury  in  the  mother's  breast. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  from  it  to  look  at  Aileen,  propped  up 
in  bed,  her  head  thrown  back  against  the  pillow,  and  her 
,9  449 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

little  hands  closed  happily  over  Warkworth's  letters;  and 
she  went  straight  from  that  vision  to  write  to  the  traitor. 

The  traitor  defended  and  excused  himself  by  return  of 
post.  He  implored  her  to  pay  no  attention  to  the  calum- 
nious distortion  of  a  friendship  which  had  already  served 
Aileen's  interests  no  less  than  his  own.  It  was  largely  to 
Miss  Le  Breton's  influence  that  he  owed  the  appointment 
which  was  to  advance  him  so  materially  in  his  career. 
At  the  same  time  he  thought  it  would  be  wise  if  Lady 
Blanche  kept  not  only  the  silly  gossip  that  was  going 
about,  but  even  this  true  and  innocent  fact,  from 
Aileen's  knowledge.  One  never  knew  how  a  girl  would 
take  such  things,  and  he  would  rather  explain  it  himself 
at  his  own  time. 

Lady  Blanche  had  to  be  content.  And  meanwhile 
the  glory  of  the  Mokembe  appointment  was  a  strong 
factor  in  Aileen's  recovery.  She  exulted  over  it  by  day 
and  night,  and  she  wrote  the  letters  of  an  angel. 

The  mother  watched  her  writing  them  with  mixed 
feelings.  As  to  Warkworth's  replies,  which  she  was 
sometimes  allowed  to  see,  Lady  Blanche,  who  had  been 
a  susceptible  girl,  and  the  heroine  of  several  "affairs," 
was  secretly  and  strongly  of  opinion  that  men's  love- 
letters,  at  any  rate,  were  poor  things  nowadays,  com- 
pared with  what  they  had  been. 

But  Aileen  was  more  than  satisfied  with  them.  How 
busy  he  must  be,  and  with  such  important  business! 
Poor,  harassed  darhng,  how  good  of  him  to  write  her  a 
word — to  give  her  a  thought! 

And  now  Lady  Blanche  beheld  her  child  crushed  and 
broken,  a  nervous  wreck,  before  her  life  had  truly  begun. 

450 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

The  agonies  which  the  mother  endured  were  very  real,  and 
should  have  been  touching.  But  she  was  not  a  touch- 
ing person.  All  her  personal  traits  —  her  red  -  rimmed 
eyes,  her  straggling  hair,  the  slight,  disagreeable  twist  in 
her  nose  and  mouth — combined,  with  her  signal  lack  of 
dignity  and  reticence,  to  stir  the  impatience  rather  than 
the  sympathy  of  the  by-stander. 

"  And  mamma  was  so  fond  of  her,"  Julie  would  say  to 
herself  sometimes,  in  wonder,  proudly  contrasting  the 
wild  grace  and  originality  of  her  disgraced  mother  with 
the  awkward,  slipshod  ways  of  the  sister  who  had  re- 
mained a  great  lady. 

Meanwhile,  Lady  Blanche  was,  indeed,  perpetually 
conscious  of  her  strange  niece,  perpetually  thinking  of 
the  story  her  brothers  had  told  her,  perpetually  trying  to 
recall  the  sister  she  had  lost  so  young,  and  then  turning 
from  all  such  things  to  brood  angrily  over  the  Lawrence 
letter,  and  the  various  other  rumors  which  had  reached 
her  of  Warkworth's  relations  to  Miss  Le  Breton. 

What  was  in  the  woman's  mind  now?  She  looked 
pale  and  tragic  enough.  But  what  right  had  she  to 
grieve — or,  if  she  did  grieve,  to  be  pitied? 

Jacob  Delafield  had  been  fool  enough  to  marry  her, 
and  fate  would  make  her  a  duchess.  So  true  it  is  that 
they  who  have  no  business  to  flourish  do  flourish,  like 
green  bay-trees. 

As  to  poor  Rose — sometimes  there  would  rise  on  Lady 
Blanche's  mind  the  sudden  picture  of  herself  and  the  lost, 
dark-eyed  sister,  scampering  on  their  ponies  through  the 
country  lanes  of  their  childhood ;  of  her  lessons  with  Rose, 
her  worship  of  Rose ;  and  then  of  that  black  curtain  of 
mystery  and  reprobation  which  for  the  younger  child  of 

451 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

sixteen  had  suddenly  descended  upon  Rose  and  all  that 
concerned  her. 

But  Rose's  daughter!  All  one  could  say  was  that  she 
had  turned  out  as  the  child  of  such  proceedings  might 
be  expected  to  turn  out — a  minx.  The  aunt's  convic- 
tion as  to  that  stood  firm.  And  while  Rose's  face  and 
fate  had  sunk  into  the  shadows  of  the  past,  even  for  her 
sister,  Aileen  was  here,  strugghng  for  her  deHcate,  threat- 
ened life,  her  hand  always  in  the  hand  of  this  woman 
who  had  tried  to  steal  her  lover  from  her,  her  soft,  hope- 
less eyes,  so  tragically  unconscious,  bent  upon  the  bold 
intriguer. 

What  possessed  the  child.'*  Warkworth's  letters,  Ju- 
lie's company — those  seemed  to  be  all  she  desired. 

And  at  last,  in  the  June  beauty  and  brilliance,  when  a 
triumphant  summer  had  banished  the  pitiful  spring, 
when  the  meadows  were  all  perfume  and  color,  and  the 
clear  mountains,  in  a  clear  sky,  upheld  the  ever-new  and 
never-ending  pomp  of  dawn  and  noon  and  night,  the 
little,  wasted  creature  looked  up  into  Julie's  face,  and, 
without  tears,  gasped  out  her  story. 

"These  are  his  letters.  Some  day  I'll — I'll  read  you 
some  of  them;  and  this — is  his  picture.  I  know  you 
saw  him  at  Lady  Henry's.  He  mentioned  your  name. 
Will  you  please  tell  me  everything — all  the  times  you 
saw  him,  and  what  he  talked  of?  You  see  I  am  much 
stronger.     I  can  bear  it  all  now." 

Meanwhile,  for  Delafield,  this  fortnight  of  waiting — 
waiting  for  the  African  letters,  waiting  for  the  revival  of 
life  in  Aileen — was  a  period  of  extraordinary  tension, 
when  all  the  powers  of  nerve  and  brain  seemed  to  be 

452 


Lady    Rose' 8    Daughter 

tested  and  tried  to  the  utmost.  He  himself  was  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  JuHe  and  in  dealing  with  her. 

In  the  first  place,  as  he  saw,  she  could  give  no  free 
course  to  grief.  The  tragic  yearning,  the  agonized  ten- 
derness and  pity  which  consumed  her,  must  be  crushed 
out  of  sight  as  far  as  possible.  They  would  have  been 
an  offence  to  Lady  Blanche,  a  bewilderment  to  Aileen. 
And  it  was  on  her  relation  to  her  new-found  cousin  that, 
as  Delafield  perceived,  her  moral  life  for  the  moment 
turned.  This  frail  girl  was  on  the  brink  of  perishing  be- 
cause death  had  taken  Warkworth  from  her.  And  Julie 
knew  well  that  Warkworth  had  neither  loved  her  nor 
deserved  her — that  he  had  gone  to  Africa  and  to  death 
with  another  image  in  his  heart. 

There  was  a  perpetual  and  irreparable  cruelty  in  the 
situation.  And  from  the  remorse  of  it  Julie  could  not 
escape.  Day  by  day  she  was  more  profoundly  touched 
by  the  clinging,  tender  creature,  more  sharply  scourged 
by  the  knowledge  that  the  affection  developing  between 
them  could  never  be  without  its  barrier  and  its  mystery, 
that  something  must  always  remain  undisclosed,  lest 
Aileen  cast  her  off  in  horror. 

It  was  a  new  moral  suffering,  in  one  whose  life  had  been 
based  hitherto  on  intellect,  or  passion.  In  a  sense  it  held 
at  bay  even  her  grief  for  Warkworth,  her  intolerable 
compassion  for  his  fate.  In  sheer  dread  lest  the  girl 
should  find  her  out  and  hate  her,  she  lost  insensibly  the 
first  poignancy  of  sorrow. 

These  secrets  of  feeling  left  her  constantly  pale  and 
silent.  Yet  her  grace  had  never  been  more  evident.  All 
the  inmates  of  the  little  pension,  the  landlord's  family, 
the  servants,  the  visitors,  as  the  days  passed,  felt  the  ro- 

453 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

mance  and  thrill  of  her  presence.  Lady  Blanche  evoked 
impatience  of  ennui.  She  was  inconsiderate;  she  was 
meddlesome;  she  soon  ceased  even  to  be  pathetic.  But 
for  Julie  every  foot  ran,  every  eye  smiled. 

Then,  when  the  day  was  over,  Delafield's  opportunity 
began.  Julie  could  not  sleep.  He  gradually  established 
the  right  to  read  with  her  and  talk  with  her.  It  was  a 
relation  very  singular,  and  very  intimate.  She  would 
admit  him  at  his  knock,  and  he  would  find  her  on  her  sofa, 
very  sad,  often  in  tears,  her  black  hair  loose  upon  her 
shoulders.  Outwardly  there  was  often  much  ceremony, 
even  distance  between  them;  inwardly,  each  was  explor- 
ing the  other,  and  Julie's  attitude  towards  Delafield  was 
becoming  more  uncertain,  more  touched  with  emotion. 

What  was,  perhaps,  most  noticeable  in  it  was  a  new 
timidity,  a  touch  of  anxious  respect  towards  him.  In 
the  old  days,  what  with  her  literary  cultivation  and  her 
social  success,  she  had  always  been  the  flattered  and  ad- 
mired one  of  their  little  group.  Delafield  felt  himself 
clumsy  and  tongue-tied  beside  her.  It  was  a  superiority 
on  her  part  very  natural  and  never  ungraceful,  and  it  was 
his  chief  delight  to  bring  it  forward,  to  insist  upon  it,  to 
take  it  for  granted. 

But  the  relation  between  them  had  silently  shifted. 

"You  judge — you  are  always  judging,"  she  had  said 
once,  impatiently,  to  Delafield.  And  now  it  was  round 
these  judgments,  these  inward  verdicts  of  his,  on  life  or 
character,  that  she  was  perpetually  hovering.  She  was 
infinitely  curious  about  them.  She  would  wrench  them 
from  him,  and  then  would  often  shiver  away  from  him 
in  resentment. 

He,  meanwhile,  as  he  advanced  further  in  the  knowl- 

454 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

edge  of  her  strange  nature,  was  more  and  more  bewil- 
dered by  her — her  perversities  and  caprices,  her  brillian- 
cies and  powers,  her  utter  lack  of  any  standard  or  scheme 
of  life.  She  had  been  for  a  long  time,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  the  creature  of  her  exquisite  social  instincts — then 
the  creature  of  passion.  But  what  a  woman  through  it 
all,  and  how  adorable,  with  those  poetic  gestures  and 
looks,  those  melancholy,  gracious  airs  that  ravished  him 
perpetually!  And  now  this  new  attitude,  as  of  a  child 
leaning,  wistfully  looking  in  your  face,  asking  to  be  led, 
to  be  wrestled  and  reasoned  with. 

The  days,  as  they  passed,  produced  in  him  a  secret  and 
mounting  intoxication.  Then,  perhaps  for  a  day  or  two, 
there  would  be  a  reaction,  both  foreseeing  that  a  kind 
of  spiritual  tyranny  might  arise  from  their  relation,  and 
both  recoiling  from  it.  .  .  . 

One  night  she  was  very  restless  and  silent.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  means  of  approach  to  her  true  mind. 
Suddenly  he  took  her  hand — it  was  some  days  since  they 
had  spoken  of  Warkworth — and  almost  roughly  remind- 
ed her  of  her  promise  to  tell  him  all. 

She  rebelled.  But  his  look  and  manner  held  her,  and 
the  inner  misery  sought  an  outlet.  Submissively  she 
began  to  speak,  in  her  low,  murmuring  voice;  she  went 
back  over  the  past — the  winter  in  Bruton  Street ;  the  first 
news  of  the  Moffatt  engagement;  her  efforts  for  Wark- 
worth's  promotion;  the  history  of  the  evening  party 
which  had  led  to  her  banishment;  the  struggle  in  her 
own  mind  and  Warkworth 's;  the  sudden  mad  schemes  of 
their  last  interview;  the  rush  of  the  Paris  journey. 

The  mingled  exaltation  and  anguish,  the  comparative 
absence  of  regret  with  which  she  told  the  story,  produced 

455 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

an  astonishing  effect  on  Delafield.  And  in  both  minds, 
as  the  story  proceeded,  there  emerged  ever  more  clearly 
the  consciousness  of  that  imperious  act  by  which  he  had 
saved  her. 

Suddenly  she  .stopped. 

"  I  know  you  can  find  no  excuse  for  it  all,"  she  said,  in 
excitement. 

"Yes;  for  all — but  for  one  thing,"  was  his  low  reply. 

She  shrank,  her  eyes  on  his  face. 

"That  poor  child,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

She  looked  at  him  piteously. 

"Did  you  ever  realize  what  you  were  doing?"  he  asked 
her,  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"No,  no!  How  could  I?  I  thought  of  some  one  so 
different — I  had  never  seen  her — " 

She  paused,  her  wide  -  seeking  gaze  fixed  upon  him 
through  tears,  as  though  she  pleaded  with  him  to  find 
explanations — palliatives. 

But  he  gently  shook  his  head. 

Suddenly,  shaken  with  weeping,  she  bowed  her  face 
upon  the  hands  that  held  her  own.  It  was  like  one  who 
relinquishes  all  pleading,  all  defence,  and  throws  herself 
on  the  mercy  of  the  judge. 

He  tenderly  asked  her  pardon  if  he  had  wounded  her. 
But  he  shrank  from  offering  any  caress.  The  outward 
signs  of  life's  most  poignant  and  most  beautiful  moments 
are  generally  very  simple  and  austere. 


xxrv 

*'  "V/OU  have  had  a  disquieting  letter?" 

1  The  voice  was  JuHe's.  Delafield  was  standing, 
apparently  in  thought,  at  the  farther  corner  of  the  httle, 
raised  terrace  of  the  hotel.  She  approached  him  with  an 
affectionate  anxiety,  of  which  he  was  instantly  conscious. 

"I  am  afraid  I  may  have  to  leave  you  to-night,"  he 
said,  turning  towards  her,  and  holding  out  the  letter  in 
his  hand. 

It  contained  a  few  agitated  lines  from  the  Duke  of 
Chudleigh. 

"They  tell  me  my  lad  can't  get  over  this.  He's  made  a 
gallant  fight,  but  this  beats  us.  A  week  or  two — no  more. 
Ask  Mrs.  Delafield  to  let  you  come.  She  will,  I  know. 
She  wrote  to  me  very  kindly.  Mervyn  keeps  talking  of 
you.  You'd  come,  if  you  heard  him.  It's  ghastly — the 
cruelty  of  it  all.  Whether  I  can  live  without  him,  that's 
the  point." 

"You'll  go,  of  course?"  said  Julie,  returning  it. 

"To-night,  if  you  allow  it." 

"Of  course.     You  ought." 

"I  hate  leaving  you  alone,  with  this  trouble  on  your 
hands,"  said  Jacob,  in  some  agitation.  "What  are  your 
plans?" 

"I  could  follow  you  next  week.  Aileen  comes  down 
to-day.     And  I  should  like  to  wait  here  for  the  mail." 

457 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"In  five  days,  about,  it  should  be  here,"  said  Dela- 
field. 

There  was  a  silence.  She  dropped  into  a  chair  beside 
the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  which  was  wreathed  in 
wistaria,  and  looked  out  upon  the  vast  landscape  of  the 
lake.  His  thought  was,  "How  can  the  mail  matter  to 
her?     She  cannot  suppose  that  he  had  written — " 

Aloud  he  said,  in  some  embarrassment,  "You  expect 
letters  yourself?" 

"I  expect  nothing,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "But 
Aileen  is  living  on  the  chance  of  letters." 

"There  may  be  nothing  for  her — except,  indeed,  her 
letters  to  him — poor  child!" 

"She  knows  that.     But  the  hope  keeps  her  alive." 

"And  you?"  thought  Delafield,  with  an  inward  groan, 
as  he  looked  down  upon  her  pale  profile.  He  had  a  mo- 
ment's hateful  vision  of  himself  as  the  elder  brother  in 
the  parable.  Was  Julie's  mind  to  be  the  home  of  an 
eternal  antithesis  between  the  living  husband  and  the 
dead  lover — in  which  the  latter  had  forever  the  beau 
role? 

Then,  impatiently,  Jacob  wrenched  himself  from  mean 
thoughts.  It  was  as  though  he  bared  his  head  remorse- 
fully before  the  dead  man. 

"I  will  go  to  the  Foreign  Office,"  he  said,  in  her  ear, 
"as  I  pass  through  town.  They  will  have  letters.  All 
the  information  I  can  get  you  shall  have  at  once." 

"Thank  you,  nion  ami,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

Then  she  looked  up,  and  he  was  startled  by  her  eyes. 
Where  he  had  expected  grief,  he  saw  a  shrinking  ani- 
mation. 

"Write  to  me  often,"  she  said,  imperiously. 

458 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"  Of  course.  But  don't  trouble  to  answer  much.  Your 
hands  are  so  full  here." 

She  frowned. 

* '  Trouble !  Why  do  you  spoil  me  so  ?  Demand — insist 
— that  I  should  write!" 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  demand — T  insist!" 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  went  slowly  away  from 
him  into  the  house.  Certainly  the  antagonism  of  her 
secret  thoughts,  though  it  persisted,  was  no  longer  merely 
cold  or  critical.  For  it  concerned  one  who  was  not  only 
the  master  of  his  own  life,  but  threatened  unexpectedly 
to  become  the  master  of  hers. 

She  had  begun,  indeed,  to  please  her  imagination  with 
the  idea  of  a  relation  between  them,  which,  while  it  ig- 
nored the  ordinary  relations  of  marriage,  should  yet  in- 
clude many  of  the  intimacies  and  refinements  of  love. 
More  and  more  did  the  surprises  of  his  character  arrest 
and  occupy  her  mind.  She  found,  indeed,  no  "plaster 
saint."  Her  cool  intelligence  soon  detected  the  traces  of 
a  peevish  or  stubborn  temper,  and  of  a  natural  inertia, 
perpetually  combated,  however,  by  the  spiritual  energy 
of  a  new  and  other  self  exfoliating  from  the  old;  a  self 
whose  acts  and  ways  she  watched,  sometimes  with  the 
held  breath  of  fascination,  sometimes  with  a  return  of 
shrinking  or  fear.  That  a  man  should  not  only  appear 
but  be  so  good  was  still  in  her  eyes  a  little  absurd.  Per- 
haps her  feeling  was  at  bottom  the  common  feeling  of 
the  sceptical  nature.  "We  should  listen  to  the  higher 
voices ;  but  in  such  a  way  that  if  another  hypothesis  were 
true,  we  should  not  have  been  too  completely  duped." 

She  was  ready,  also,  to  convict  him  of  certain  preju- 
dices and  superstitions  which  roused  in  her  an  intellect- 
".— IS  459 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ual  impatience.  But  when  all  was  said,  Delafield,  un- 
consciously, was  drawing  her  towards  him,  as  the  fowler 
draws  a  fluttering  bird.  It  was  the  exquisite  refinement 
of  those  spiritual  insights  and  powers  he  possessed  which 
constantly  appealed,  not  only  to  her  heart,  but — a  very 
important  matter  in  Julie's  case — to  her  taste,  to  her 
own  carefully  tempered  instinct  for  the  rare  and  beau- 
tiful. 

He  was  the  master,  then,  she  admitted,  of  a  certain 
vein  of  spiritual  genius.  Well,  here  should  he  lead — and 
even,  if  he  pleased,  command  her.  She  would  sit  at  his 
feet,  and  he  should  open  to  her  ranges  of  feeling,  delights, 
and  subtleties  of  moral  sensation  hitherto  unknown  to 
her. 

Thus  the  feeling  of  ennui  and  reaction  which  had 
marked  the  first  weeks  of  her  married  life  had  now 
wholly  disappeared.  Delafield  was  no  longer  dull  or 
pedantic  in  her  eyes.  She  passed  alternately  from  mo- 
ments of  intolerable  smart  and  pity  for  the  dead  to 
moments  of  agitation  and  expectancy  connected  with 
her  husband.  She  thought  over  their  meeting  of  the 
night  before;  she  looked  forward  to  similar  hours  to 
come. 

Meanwhile  his  relation  towards  her  in  many  matters 
was  still  naively  ignorant  and  humble — determined  by 
the  simplicity  of  a  man  of  some  real  greatness,  who  never 
dreamed  of  claiming  tastes  or  knowledge  he  did  not  pos- 
sess, whether  in  small  things  or  large.  This  phase,  how- 
ever, only  gave  the  more  value  to  one  which  frequently 
succeeded  it.  For  suddenly  the  conversation  would 
enter  regions  where  he  felt  himself  peculiarly  at  home, 
and,  with  the  same  unconsciousness  on  his  part,  she  would 

460 


Ladi^    Rose's    Daughter 

be  made  to  feel  the  dignity  and  authority  which  sur- 
rounded his  ethical  and  spiritual  life.  And  these  con- 
trasts— this  weakness  and  this  strength — combined  with 
the  man-and-woman  element  which  is  always  present  in 
any  situation  of  the  kind,  gave  rise  to  a  very  varied  and 
gradually  intensifying  play  of  feeling  between  them. 
Feeling  only  possible,  no  doubt,  for  the  raffincs  of  this 
world;  but  for  them  full  of  strange  charm,  and  even  of 
excitement. 

Delafield  left  the  little  inn  for  Montreux,  Lausanne, 
and  London  that  afternoon.  He  bent  to  kiss  his  wife 
at  the  moment  of  his  departure,  in  the  bare  sitting- 
room  that  had  been  improvised  for  them  on  the  ground 
floor  of  the  hotel,  and  as  she  let  her  face  linger  ever  so 
little  against  his  she  felt  strong  arms  flung  round  her, 
and  was  crushed  against  his  breast  in  a  hungry  embrace. 
When  he  released  her  with  a  flush  and  a  murmured  word 
of  apology  she  shook  her  head,  smiling  sadly  but  say- 
ing nothing.  The  door  closed  on  him,  and  at  the  sound 
she  made  a  hasty  step  forward. 

"Jacob!     Take  me  with  you!" 

But  her  voice  died  in  the  rattle  and  bustle  of  the  dili- 
gence outside,  and  she  was  left  trembling  from  head  to 
foot,  under  a  conflict  of  emotions  that  seemed  now  to 
exalt,  now  to  degrade  her. 

Half  an  hour  after  Delafield's  departure  there  ap- 
peared on  the  terrace  of  the  hotel  a  tottering,  emaci- 
ated form  —  Aileen  Moffatt,  in  a  black  dress  and  hat, 
clinging  to  her  mother's  arm.  But  she  refused  the 
deck  -  chair,  which  they  had  spread  with  cushions  and 

shawls. 

461 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"  No ;  let  me  sit  up."  And  she  took  an  ordinary  chair, 
looking  round  upon  the  lake  and  the  little  flowery  ter- 
race with  a  slow,  absorbed  look,  like  one  trying  to 
remember.  Suddenly  she  bowed  her  head  on  her 
hands. 

"Aileen!"  cried  Lady  Blanche,  in  an  agony. 

But  the  girl  motioned  her  away.  "Don't,  mummy. 
I'm  all  right." 

And  restraining  any  further  emotion,  she  laid  her  arms 
on  the  balustrade  and  gazed  long  and  calmly  into  the 
purple  depths  and  gleaming  snows  of  the  Rh6ne  valley. 
Her  hat  oppressed  her  and  she  took  it  off,  revealing  the 
abundance  of  her  delicately  golden  hair,  which,  in  its  lack 
of  lustre  and  spring,  seemed  to  share  in  the  physical  dis- 
tress and  loss  of  the  whole  personality. 

The  face  was  that  of  a  doomed  creature,  incapable 
now  of  making  any  successful  struggle  for  the  right  to 
live.  What  had  been  sensibility  had  become  melan- 
choly ;  the  slight,  chronic  frown  was  deeper,  the  pale 
lips  more  pinched.  Yet  intermittently  there  was 
still  great  sweetness,  the  last  effort  of  a  "  beautiful 
soul  "  meant  for  happiness,  and  withered  before  its 
time. 

As  Julie  stood  beside  her,  while  Lady  Blanche  had  gone 
to  fetch  a  book  from  the  salon,  the  poor  child  put  out  her 
hand  and  grasped  that  of  Julie. 

"It  is  quite  possible  I  may  get  the  letter  to-night," 
she  said,  in  a  hurried  whisper.  "My  maid  went  down  to 
Montreux — there  is  a  clever  man  at  the  post-office  who 
tried  to  make  it  out  for  us.  He  thinks  it  '11  be  to- 
night." 

"Don't  be  too  disappointed  if  nothing  comes,"  said 
462 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Julie,  caressing  the  hand.  Its  thinness,  its  icy  and  life- 
less touch,  dismayed  her.  Ah,  how  easily  might  this 
physical  wreck  have  been  her  doing! 

The  bells  of  Montreux  struck  half-past  six.  A  restless 
and  agonized  expectation  began  to  show  itself  in  all  the 
movements  of  the  invalid.  She  left  her  chair  and  began 
to  pace  the  little  terrace  on  Julie's  arm.  Her  dragging 
step,  the  mournful  black  of  her  dress,  the  struggle  be- 
tween youth  and  death  in  her  sharpened  face,  made  her 
a  tragic  presence.  Julie  could  hardly  bear  it,  while  all 
the  time  she,  too,  was  secretly  and  breathlessly  waiting 
for  Warkworth's  last  words. 

Lady  Blanche  returned,  and  Julie  hurried  away. 

She  passed  through  the  hotel  and  walked  down  the 
Montreux  road.  The  post  had  already  reached  the  first 
houses  of  the  village,  and  the  postman,  who  knew  her, 
willingly  gave  her  the  letters. 

Yes,  a  packet  for  Aileen,  addressed  in  an  unknown 
hand  to  a  London  address,  and  forwarded  thence.  It 
bore  the  Denga  postmark. 

And  another  for  herself,  readdressed  from  London  by 
Madame  Bornier.  She  tore  off  the  outer  envelope;  be- 
neath was  a  letter  of  which  the  address  was  feebly  writ- 
ten in  Warkworth's  hand:  "Mademoiselle  Le  Breton, 
3  Heribert  Street,  London." 

She  had  the  strength  to  carry  her  own  letter  to  her 
room,  to  call  Aileen's  maid  and  send  her  with  the 
other  patket  to  Lady  Blanche.  Then  she  locked  her- 
self in.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  poor,  crumpled  page,  and  the  labored  hand- 
writing ! 

463 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Julie,  I  am  dying.  They  are  such  good  fellows,  but 
they  can't  save  me.-    It's  horrible. 

"  I  saw  the  news  of  your  engagement  in  a  paper  the  day 
before  I  left  Denga.  You're  right.  He'll  make  you  happy. 
Tell  him  I  said  so.  Oh,  my  God,  I  shall  never  trouble  you 
again!  I  bless  you  for  the  letter  you  wrote  me.  Here  it  is. 
.  .  .  No,  I  can't — can't  read  it.     Drowsy.     No  pain — " 

And  here  the  pen  had  dropped  from  his  hand.  Search- 
ing for  something  more,  she  drew  from  the  envelope  the 
wild  and  passionate  letter  she  had  written  him  at  Heri- 
bert  Street,  in  the  early  morning  after  her  return  from 
Paris,  while  she  was  waiting  for  Delafield  to  bring  her 
the  news  of  Lord  Lackington's  state. 

The  small  table  d'hote  of  the  Hotel  Michel  was  still 
further  diminished  that  night.  Lady  Blanche  was  with 
her  daughter,  and  Mrs.  Delafield  did  not  appear. 

But  the  moon  was  hanging  in  glory  over  the  lake  when 
Julie,  unable  to  bear  her  room  and  her  thoughts  any  long- 
er, threw  a  lace  scarf  about  her  head  and  neck,  and  went 
blindly  climbing  through  the  upward  paths  leading  to 
Les  Avants.  The  roads  were  silver  in  the  moonlight;  so 
was  the  lake,  save  where  the  great  mountain  shadows  lay 
across  the  eastern  end.  And  suddenly,  white,  through 
pine-trees,  "  Jaman,  delicately  tall!" 

The  air  cooled  her  brow,  and  from  the  deep,  envelop- 
ing night  her  torn  heart  drew  balm,  and  a  first  soothing 
of  the  pulse  of  pain.  Every  now  and  then,  as  she  sat 
down  to  rest,  a  waking  dream  overshadowed  her.  She 
seemed  to  be  supporting  Warkworth  in  her  arms;  his 
dying  head  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  she  murmured  cour- 
age and  love  into  his  ear.     But  not  as  Julie  Le  Breton. 

464 


Ziady    Rose's    Daughter 

Through  all  the  anguish  of  what  was  almost  an  illu- 
sion of  the  senses,  she  still  felt  herself  Delafield's  wife. 
And  in  that  flood  of  silent  speech  she  poured  out  on 
Warkworth,  it  was  as  though  she  offered  him  also 
Jacob's  compassion,  Jacob's  homage,  mingled  with  her 
own. 

Once  she  found  herself  sitting  at  the  edge  of  a  meadow, 
environed  by  the  heavy  scents  of  flowers.  Some  apple- 
trees  with  whitened  trunks  rose  between  her  and  the  lake 
a  thousand  feet  below.  The  walls  of  Chillon,  the  houses 
of  Montreux,  caught  the  light;  opposite,  the  deep  forests 
of  Bouveret  and  St.  Gingolphe  lay  black  upon  the  lake; 
above  them  rode  the  moon.  And  to  the  east  the  high 
Alps,  their  pure  lines  a  little  effaced  and  withdrawn,  as 
when  a  light  veil  hangs  over  a  sanctuary. 

Julie  looked  out  upon  a  vast  freedom  of  space,  and  by 
a  natural  connection  she  seemed  to  be  also  surveying  her 
own  world  of  life  and  feeling,  her  past  and  her  future. 
She  thought  of  her  childhood  and  her  parents,  of  her 
harsh,  combative  youth,  of  the  years  with  Lady  Henry, 
of  Warkworth,  of  her  husband,  and  the  life  into  which  his 
strong  hand  had  so  suddenly  and  rashly  drawn  her.  Her 
thoughts  took  none  of  the  religious  paths  so  familiar  to 
his.  And  yet  her  reverie  was  so  far  religious  that  her 
mind  seemed  to  herself  to  be  quivering  under  the  onset 
of  affections,  emotions,  awes,  till  now  unknown,  and 
that,  looking  back,  she  was  conscious  of  a  groping  sense 
of  significance,  of  purpose,  in  all  that  had  befallen  her. 
Yet  to  this  sense  she  could  put  no  words.  Only,  in  the 
end,  through  the  constant  action  of  her  visualizing  im- 
agination, it  connected  itself  with  Delafield's  face,  and 
with  the  memory  of  many  of  his  recent  acts  and  sayings. 
So  465 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

It  was  one  of  those  hours  which  determine  the  history 
of  a  man  or  woman.  And  the  august  Alpine  beauty  en- 
tered in,  so  that  Julie,  in  this  sad  and  thrilling  act  of  self- 
probing,  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  powers  and  dom- 
inations divine. 

Her  face,  stained  with  tears,  took  gradually  some  of 
the  calm,  the  loftiness  of  the  night.  Yet  the  close-shut, 
brooding  mouth  would  slip  sometimes  into  a  smile  ex- 
quisitely soft  and  gentle,  as  though  the  heart  remem- 
bered something  which  seemed  to  the  intelligence  at  once 
folly  and  sweetness. 

What  was  going  on  within  her  was,  to  her  own  con- 
sciousness, a  strange  thing.  It  appeared  to  her  as  a  kind 
of  simplification,  a  return  to  childhood;  or,  rather,  was  it 
the  emergence  in  the  grown  mind,  tired  with  the  clamor 
of  its  own  egotistical  or  passionate  life,  of  some  in- 
stincts, natural  to  the  child,  which  she,  nevertheless,  as 
a  child  had  never  known;  instincts  of  trust,  of  self-aban- 
donment, steeped,  perhaps,  in  those  tears  which  are 
themselves  only  another  happiness?  .  .  . 

But  hush!  What  are  our  poor  words  in  the  presence 
of  these  nobler  secrets  of  the  wrestling  and  mounting 
spirit ! 

On  the  way  down  she  saw  another  figure  emerge  from 
the  dark. 

"Lady  Blanche!" 

Lady  Blanche  stood  still. 

"The  hotel  was  stifling,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  vain- 
ly tried  for  steadiness. 

Julie  perceived  that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"Aileen  is  asleep?" 

466 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Perhaps,  They  have  given  her  something  to  make 
her  sleep." 

They  walked  on  towards  the  hotel. 

Julie  hesitated. 

"She  was  not  disappointed?"  she  said,  at  last,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"No!"  said  the  mother,  sharply.  "But  one  knew,  of 
course,  there  must  be  letters  for  her.  Thank  God,  she  can 
feel  that  his  very  last  thought  was  for  her!  The  letters 
which  have  reached  her  are  dated  the  day  before  the 
fatal  attack  began — giving  a  complete  account  of  his 
march — most  interesting — showing  how  he  trusted  her 
already — though  she  is  such  a  child.  It  will  tranquillize 
her  to  feel  how  completely  she  possessed  his  heart — poor 
fellow!" 

Julie  said  nothing,  and  Lady  Blanche,  with  bitter  sat- 
isfaction, felt  rather  than  saw  what  seemed  to  her  the 
just  humiliation  expressed  in  the  drooping  and  black- 
veiled  figure  beside  her. 

Next  day  there  was  once  more  a  tinge  of  color  on 
Aileen's  cheeks.  Her  beautiful  hair  fell  round  her  once 
more  in  a  soft  life  and  confusion,  and  the  roses  which  her 
mother  had  placed  beside  her  on  the  bed  were  not  in  too 
pitiful  contrast  with  her  frail  loveliness. 

"Read  it,  please,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  found  her- 
self alone  with  Julie,  pushing  her  letter  tenderly  towards 
her.  "  He  tells  me  everything — everything!  All  he  was 
doing  and  hoping — consults  me  in  everything.  Isn't  it 
an  honor — when  I'm  so  ignorant  and  childish?  I'll  try 
to  be  brave — try  to  be  worthy — " 

And  while  her  whole  frame  was  shaken  with  deep, 
silent  sobs,  she  greedily  watched  Julie  read  the  letter. 

467 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Oughtn't  I  to  try  and  live,"  she  said,  dashing  away 
her  tears,  as  Julie  returned  it,  "when  he  loved  me  so?" 

Julie  kissed  her  with  a  passionate  and  guilty  pity. 
The  letter  might  have  been  written  to  any  friend,  to  any 
charming  child  for  whom  a  much  older  man  had  a  kind- 
ness. It  gave  a  business-like  account  of  their  march, 
dilated  on  one  or  two  points  of  policy,  drew  some  humor- 
ous sketches  of  his  companions,  and  concluded  with  a 
few  affectionate  and  playful  sentences. 

But  when  the  wrestle  with  death  began,  Warkworth 
wrote  but  one  last  letter,  uttered  but  one  cry  of  the 
heart,  and  it  lay  now  in  Julie's  bosom. 

A  few  days  passed.  Delafield's  letters  were  short  and 
full  of  sadness.  Elmira  still  lived;  but  any  day  or  hour 
might  see  the  end.  As  for  the  father —  But  the  subject 
was  too  tragic  to  be  written  of,  even  to  her.  Not  to  feel, 
not  to  realize;  there  lay  the  only  chance  of  keeping  one's 
own  courage,  and  so  of  being  any  help  whatever  to  two 
of  the  most  miserable  of  human  beings. 

At  last,  rather  more  than  a  week  after  Delafield's  de- 
parture, came  two  telegrams.  One  was  from  Delafield — 
"Mervyn  died  this  morning.  Duke's  condition  causes 
great  anxiety."  The  other  from  Evelyn  Crowborough — 
"Elmira  died  this  morning.  Going  down  to  Shropshire 
to  help  Jacob." 

Julie  threw  down  the  telegrams.  A  rush  of  proud 
tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  swept  to  the  door  of  her 
room,  opened  it,  and  called  her  maid. 

The  maid  came,  and  when  she  saw  the  sparkling  looks 
and  strained  bearing  of  her  mistress,  wondered  what 
crime  she  was  to  be  rebuked  for.     Julie  merely  bade  her 

468 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

pack  at  once,  as  it  was  her  intention  to  catch  the  eight 
o'clock  through  train  at  Lausanne  that  night  for  Eng- 
land. 

Twenty  hours  later  the  train  carrying  Julie  to  Lon- 
don entered  Victoria  Station.  On  the  platform  stood 
the  little  Duchess,  impatiently  expectant.  Julie  was 
clasped  in  her  arms,  and  had  no  time  to  wonder  at 
the  pallor  and  distraction  of  her  friend  before  she 
was  hurried  into  the  brougham  waiting  beyond  the 
train. 

"Oh,  Julie!"  cried  the  Duchess,  catching  the  trav- 
eller's hands,  as  they  drove  away.     "Julie,  darling!" 

Julie  turned  to  her  in  amazement.  The  blue  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  had  no  tears,  but  in  them,  and  in  the 
Duchess's  whole  aspect,  was  expressed  a  vivid  horror 
and  agitation  which  struck  at  Julie's  heart. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  catching  her  breath.  "What 
is  it?" 

"Julie,  I  was  going  to  Faircourt  this  morning.  First 
your  telegram  stopped  me.  I  thought  I'd  wait  and  go 
with  you.  Then  came  another,  from  Delafield.  The 
Duke!     The  poor  Duke!" 

Julie's  attitude  changed  unconsciously — instantly. 

"Yes;  tell  m.e!" 

"It's  in  all  the  papers  to-night — on  the  placards — 
don't  look  out!"  And  the  Duchess  lifted  her  hand  and 
drew  down  the  blinds  of  the  brougham.  "He  was  in  a 
most  anxious  state  yesterday,  but  they  thought  him 
calmer  at  night,  and  he  insisted  on  being  left  alone. 
The  doctors  still  kept  a  watch,  but  he  managed  in  some 
mysterious  way  to  evade  them  all,  and  this  morning  he 

46Q 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

was  missed.  After  two  hours  they  found  him — in  the 
river  that  runs  below  the  house!" 

There  was  a  silence. 

"And  Jacob?"  said  Julie,  hoarsely. 

"That's  what  I'm  so  anxious  about,"  exclaimed  the 
Duchess.  "Oh,  I  am  thankful  you've  come!  You  know 
how  Jacob's  always  felt  about  the  Duke  and  Mervyn — 
how  he's  hated  the  notion  of  succeeding.  And  Susan, 
who  went  down  yesterday,  telegraphed  to  me  last  night 
— before  this  horror — that  he  was  '  terribly  strained  and 
overwrought.' " 

"Succeeding?"  said  Julie,  vaguely.  Mechanically  she 
had  drawn  up  the  blind  again,  and  her  eyes  followed  the 
dingy  lines  of  the  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road,  till  suddenly 
they  turned  away  from  the  placards  outside  a  small  sta- 
tioner's shop  which  announced;  "Tragic  death  of  the 
Duke  of  Chudleigh  and  his  son." 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  curiously  without  replying. 
Julie  seemed  to  be  grappling  with  some  idea  which  es- 
caped her,  or,  rather,  was  presently  expelled  by  one 
more  urgent. 

"Is  Jacob  ill?"  she  said,  abruptly,  looking  her  com- 
panion full  in  the  face. 

"  I  only  know  what  I've  told  you.  Susan  says  *  strain- 
ed and  overwrought.'  Oh,  it'll  be  all  right  when  he  gets 
you!" 

Julie  made  no  reply.  She  sat  motionless,  and  the 
Duchess,  stealing  another  glance  at  her,  must  needs,  even 
in  this  tragic  turmoil,  allow  herself  the  reflection  that  she 
was  a  more  delicate  study  in  black-and-white,  a  more  re- 
fined and  accented  personality  than  ever. 

"You   won't   mind,"   said   Evelyn,   timidly,   after  a 

470 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

pause;  "but  Lady  Henry  is  staying  with  me,  and  also 
Sir  Wilfrid  Bury,  who  had  such  a  bad  cold  in  his  lodg- 
ings that  I  went  down  there  a  week  ago,  got  the  doc- 
tor's leave,  and  carried  him  off  there  and  then.  And 
Mr.  Montresor's  coming  in.  He  particularly  wanted,  he 
said,  just  to  press  your  hand.  But  they  sha'n't  bother 
you  if  you're  tired.  Our  train  goes  at  lo.io,  and  Freddie 
has  got  the  express  stopped  for  us  at  Westonport — about 
three  in  the  morning." 

The  carriage  rolled  into  Grosvenor  Square,  and  pres- 
ently stopped  before  Crowborough  House.  Julie  alight- 
ed, looked  round  her  at  the  July  green  of  the  square,  at 
the  brightness  of  the  window-boxes,  and  then  at  the 
groom  of  the  chambers  who  was  taking  her  wraps  from 
her — the  same  man  who,  in  the  old  days,  used  to  feed 
Lady  Henry's  dogs  with  sweet  biscuit.  It  struck  her 
that  he  was  showing  her  a  very  particular  and  eager  at- 
tention. 

Meanwhile  in  the  Duchess's  drawing  -  room  a  little 
knot  of  people  was  gathered — Lady  Henry,  Sir  Wilfrid 
Bury,  and  Dr.  Meredith.  Their  demeanor  illustrated 
both  the  subduing  and  the  exciting  influence  of  great 
events.  Lady  Henry  was  more  talkative  than  usual. 
Sir  Wilfrid  more  silent. 

Lady  Henry  seemed  to  have  profited  by  her  stay  at 
Torquay.  As  she  sat  upright  in  a  stiff  chair,  her  hands 
resting  on  her  stick,  she  presented  her  characteristic 
aspect  of  English  solidity,  crossed  by  a  certain  free  and 
foreign  animation.  She  had  been  already  wrangling 
with  Sir  Wilfrid,  and  giving  her  opinion  freely  on  the 
"socialistic"  views  on  rank  and  property  attributed  to 

471 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Jacob  Delafield.  "If  he  can't  digest  the  cake,  that 
doesn't  mean  it  isn't  good,"  had  been  her  last  impatient 
remark,  when  Sir  Wilfrid  interrupted  her. 

"Only  a  few  minutes  more,"  he  said,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "Now,  then,  what  line  do  we  take?  How  much 
is  our  friend  likely  to  know?" 

"Unless  she  has  lost  her  eyesight — which  Evelyn  has 
not  reported — she  will  know  most  of  what  matters  be- 
fore she  has  gone  a  hundred  yards  from  the  station," 
said  Lady  Henry,  dryly. 

"Oh,  the  streets!  Yes;  but  persons  are  often  curi- 
ously dazed  by  such  a  gallop  of  events." 

"Not  Julie  Le  Breton!" 

"I  should  like  to  be  informed  as  to  the  part  you  are 
about  to  play,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  in  a  lower  voice,  "that 
I  may  play  up  to  it.     Where  are  you?" 

Both  looked  at  Meredith,  who  had  walked  to  a  dis- 
tant window  and  was  standing  there  looking  out  upon 
the  square.  Lady  Henry  was  well  aware  that  he 
had  not  forgiven  her,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  rath- 
er anxious  that  he  should.  So  she,  too,  dropped  her 
voice. 

"I  bow  to  the  institutions  of  my  country,"  she  said,  a 
little  sparkle  in  the  strong,  gray  eye. 

"In  other  words,  you  forgive  a  duchess?" 

"I  acknowledge  the  head  of  the  family,  and  the  greater 
carries  the  less." 

"Suppose  Jacob  should  be  unforgiving?" 

"He  hasn't  the  spirit." 

"And  she?" 

"Her  conscience  will  be  on  my  side." 

"I  thought  it  was  your  theory  that  she  had  none?" 
472 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

"Jacob,  let  us  hope,  will  have  developed  some.  He 
has  a  good  deal  to  spare." 

Sir  Wilfrid  laughed.  "So  it  is  you  who  will  do  the 
pardoning?" 

"I  .shall  offer  an  armed  and  honorable  peace.  The 
Duchess  of  Chudleigh  may  intrigue  and  tell  lies,  if  she 
pleases.     I  am  not  giving  her  a  hundred  a  year." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Why,  if  I  may  ask,"  said  Sir  Wilfrid,  at  the  end  of  it, 
"did  you  quarrel  with  Jacob?  I  understand  there  was 
a  separate  cause." 

Lady  Henry  hesitated. 

"He  paid  me  a  debt,"  she  said,  at  last,  and  a  sudden 
flush  rose  in  her  old,  blanched  cheek. 

' '  And  that  annoyed  you  ?    You  have  the  oddest  code ! ' ' 

Lady  Henry  bit  her  lip. 

"  One  does  not  like  one's  money  thrown  in  one's  face." 

"Most  unreasonable  of  women!" 

"Never  mind,  Wilfrid.     We  all  have  our  feelings." 

"Precisely.  Well,  no  doubt  Jacob  will  make  peace. 
As  for —     Ah,  here  comes  Montresor!" 

A  visible  tremor  passed  through  Lady  Henry.  The 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  footman  announced  the 
Minister  for  War. 

"  Her  grace,  sir,  is  not  yet  returned." 

Montresor  stumbled  into  the  room,  and  even  with  his 
eye-glasses  carefully  adjusted,  did  not  at  once  perceive 
who  was  in  it. 

Sir  Wilfrid  went  towards  him. 

"Ah,  Bury!     Convalescent,  I  hope?" 

"Quite.  The  Duchess  has  gone  to  meet  Mrs.  Dela- 
field." 

47^ 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Mrs. —  ?"  Montresor's  mouth  opened.  "But,  of 
course,  you  know?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know.  But  one's  tongue  has  to  get  oiled. 
You  see  Lady  Henry?" 

Montresor  started. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  Lady  Henry,"  he  replied,  stiffly. 

Lady  Henry  slowly  rose  and  advanced  two  steps. 
She  quietly  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and,  smiling, 
looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Take  it.  There  is  no  longer  any  cause  of  quarrel  be- 
tween us.     I  raise  the  embargo." 

The  Minister  took  the  hand,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,  but  you  had  no  right  to  impose  it,"  he  said,  with 
energy. 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  meet  me  half-way,"  cried 
Lady  Henry,  "or  I  shall  never  hold  out!" 

Sir  Wilfrid,  whose  half-embarrassed  gaze  was  bent  on 
the  ground,  looked  up  and  was  certain  that  he  saw  a 
gleam  of  moisture  in  those  wrinkled  eyes. 

"Why  have  you  held  out  so  long?  What  does  it 
matter  to  me  whether  Miss  Julie  be  a  duchess  or  no? 
That  doesn't  make  up  to  me  for  all  the  months  you've 
shut  your  door  on  me.  And  I  was  always  given  to 
understand,  by -the -way,  that  it  wouldn't  matter  to 
you." 

"I've  had  three  months  at  Torquay,"  said  Lady  Hen- 
ry, raising  her  shoulders. 

"  I  hope  it  was  dull  to  distraction." 

"  It  was.  And  my  doctor  tells  me  the  more  I  fret  the 
more  gout  I  may  expect." 

"So  all  this  is  not  generosity,  but  health?" 

"Kiss  my  hand,  sir,  and  have  done  with  it!  You  are 
474 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

all  avenged.  At  Torquay  I  had  four  companions  in 
seven  weeks." 

"More  power  to  them!"  said  Montresor.  "Meredith, 
come  here.     Shall  we  accept  the  pleas?" 

Meredith  came  slowly  from  the  window,  his  hands 
behind  his  back. 

"Lady  Henry  commands  and  we  obey,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "But  to-day  begins  a  new  world — founded  in 
ruin,  like  the  rest  of  them." 

He  raised  his  fine  eyes,  in  which  there  was  no  laughter, 
rather  a  dreamy  intensity.     Lady  Henry  shrank. 

"If  you're  thinking  of  Chudleigh,"  she  said,  uncer- 
tainly, "be  glad  for  him.  It  was  release.  As  for  Henry 
Wark  worth — " 

"Ah,  poor  fellow!"  said  Montresor,  perfunctorily. 
"Poor  fellow!" 

He  had  dropped  Lady  Henry's  hand,  but  he  now  re- 
captured it,  enclosing  the  thin,  jewelled  fingers  in  his 
own. 

"Well,  well,  then  it's  peace,  with  all  my  heart."  He 
stooped  and  lightly  kissed  the  fingers.  "And  now,  when 
do  you  expect  our  friend?" 

"At  any  moment,"  said  Lady  Henry. 

She  seated  herself,  and  Montresor  beside  her. 

"I  am  told,"  said  Montresor,  "that  this  horror  will 
not  only  affect  Delafield  personally,  but  that  he  will  re- 
gard the  dukedom  as  a  calamity." 

"Hm! — and  you  believe  it?"  said  Lady  Henry. 

"I  try  to,"  was  the  Minister's  laughing  reply.  "Ah, 
surely,  here  they  are!" 

Meredith  turned  from  the  window,  to  which  he  had 

gone  back. 

n.-i6  475 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"The  carriage  has  just  arrived,"  he  announced,  and 
he  stood  fidgeting,  standing  first  on  one  foot,  then  on 
the  other,  and  running  his  hand  through  his  mane  of 
gray  hair.  His  large  features  were  pale,  and  any  close 
observer  would  have  detected  the  quiver  of  emotion. 

A  sound  of  voices  from  the  anteroom,  the  Duchess's 
light  tones  floating  to  the  top.  At  the  same  time  a  door 
on  the  other  side  of  the  drawing-room  opened  and  the 
Duke  of  Crowborough  appeared. 

"  I  think  I  hear  my  wife,"  he  said,  as  he  greeted  Mon- 
tresor  and  hurriedly  crossed  the  room. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  quick  steps,  and  the  little  Duch- 
ess entered. 

"Freddie,  here  is  Julie!" 

Behind  appeared  a  tall  figure  in  black.  Everybody  in 
the  room  advanced,  including  Lady  Henry,  who,  how- 
ever, after  a  few  steps  stood  still  behind  the  others, 
leaning  on  her  stick. 

Julie  looked  round  the  little  circle,  then  at  the  Duke  of 
Crowborough,  who  had  gravely  given  her  his  hand.  The 
suppressed  excitement  already  in  the  room  clearly  com- 
municated itself  to  her.  She  did  not  lose  her  self-com- 
mand for  an  instant,  but  her  face  pleaded. 

"Is  it  really  true  ?  Perhaps  there  is  some  mis- 
take?" 

"I  fear  there  can  be  none,"  said  the  Duke,  sadly. 
"Poor  Chudleigh  had  been  long  dead  when  they  found 
him." 

"Freddie,"  said  the  Duchess,  interrupting,  "I  have 
told  Greswell  we  shall  want  the  carriage  at  half-past 
nine  for  Euston.     Will  that  do?" 

"Perfectly." 

476 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

Greswell,  the  handsome  groom  of  the  chambers,  ap- 
proached Julie. 

"Your  grace's  maid  wishes  to  know  whether  it  is  your 
grace's  wish  that  she  should  go  round  to  Heribert  Street 
before  taking  the  luggage  to  Euston?" 

Julie  looked  at  the  man,  bewildered.  Then  a  storm}' 
color  rushed  into  her  cheeks. 

"Does  he  mean  my  maid?"  she  said  to  the  Duke, 
piteously. 

"Certainly,     Will  you  give  your  orders?" 

She  gave  them,  and  then,  turning  again  to  the  Duke, 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  a  moment. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  said,  faltering.  "It 
seems  as  though  we  were  all  mad." 

"You  understand,  of  course,  that  Jacob  succeeds?" 
said  the  Duke,  not  without  coldness;  and  he  stood  still  an 
instant,  gazing  at  this  woman,  who  must  now,  he  sup- 
posed, feel  herself  at  the  very  summit  of  her  ambitions. 

Julie  drew  a  long  breath.  Then  she  perceived  Lady 
Henry.  Instantly,  impetuously,  she  crossed  the  room. 
But  as  she  reached  that  composed  and  formidable  figure, 
the  old  timidity,  the  old  fear,  seized  her.  She  paused 
abruptly,  but  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Lady  Henry  took  it.  The  two  women  stood  regard- 
ing each  other,  while  the  other  persons  in  the  room  in- 
stinctively turned  away  from  their  meeting.  Lady 
Henry's  first  look  was  one  of  curiosity.  Then,  before 
the  indefinable,  ennobling  change  in  Julie's  face,  now  full 
of  the  pale  agitation  of  memory,  the  eyes  of  the  older 
woman  wavered  and  dropped.  But  she  soon  recovered 
herself. 

"We  meet  again  under  very  strange  circumstances," 

477 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

she  said,  quietly;  "though  I  have  long  foreseen  them. 
As  for  our  former  experience,  we  were  in  a  false  relation, 
and  it  made  fools  of  us  both.  You  and  Jacob  are  now 
the  heads  of  the  family.  And  if  you  like  to  make  friends 
with  me  on  this  new  footing,  I  am  ready.  As  to  my  be- 
havior, I  think  it  was  natural;  but  if  it  rankles  in  your 
mind,  I  apologize." 

The  personal  pride  of  the  owner,  curbed  in  its  turn  by 
the  pride  of  tradition  and  family,  spoke  strangely  from 
these  words.     Julie  stood  trembling,  her  chest  heaving. 

"I,  too,  regret  —  and  apologize,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Then  we  begin  again.  But  now  you  must  let  Evelyn 
take  you  to  rest  for  an  hour  or  two.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  this  hurried  journey  to-night." 

Julie  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast  with  one  of  those 
dramatic  movements  that  were  natural  to  her. 

"  Oh,  I  must  see  Jacob!"  she  said,  under  her  breath — 
"I  must  see  Jacob!" 

And  she  turned  away,  looking  vaguely  round  her. 
Meredith  approached. 

"Comfort  yourself,"  he  said,  very  gently,  pressing  her 
hand  in  both  of  his.  "It  has  been  a  great  shock,  but 
when  you  get  there  he'll  be  all  right." 

"Jacob?" 

Her  expression,  the  piteous  note  in  her  voice,  awoke  in 
him  an  answering  sense  of  pain.  He  wondered  how  it 
might  be  between  the  husband  and  wife.  Yet  it  was 
borne  in  upon  him,  as  upon  Lady  Henry,  that  her  mar- 
riage, however  interpreted,  had  brought  with  it  pro- 
found and  intimate  transformation.  A  different  woman 
stood  before  him.     And  when,  after  a  few  more  words, 

478 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

the  Duchess  swept  down  upon  them,  insisting  that  Julie 
must  rest  av/hile,  Meredith  stood  looking  after  the  re- 
treating figures,  filled  with  the  old,  bitter  sense  of  human 
separateness,  and  the  fragmentariness  of  all  human  af- 
fections. Then  he  made  his  farewells  to  the  Duke  and 
Lady  Henry,  and  slipped  away.  He  had  turned  a  page 
in  the  book  of  life;  and  as  he  walked  through  Grosvenor 
Square  he  applied  his  mind  resolutely  to  one  of  the  polit- 
ical "causes"  with  which,  as  a  powerful  and  fighting 
journalist,  he  was  at  that  moment  occupied. 

Lady  Henry,  too,  watched  Julie's  exit  from  the  room. 

"So  now  she  supposes  herself  in  love  with  Jacob?" 
she  thought,  with  amusement,  as  she  resumed  her  seat. 

"What  if  Delafield  refuses  to  be  made  a  duke?"  said 
Sir  Wilfrid,  in  her  ear. 

"It  would  be  a  situation  new  to  the  Constitution," 
said  Lady  Henry,  composedly.  "  I  advise  you,  however, 
to  wait  till  it  occurs." 

The  northern  express  rushed  onward  through  the 
night.  Rugby,  Stafford,  Crewe  had  been  left  behind. 
The  Yorkshire  valleys  and  moors  began  to  show  them- 
selves in  pale  ridges  and  folds  under  the  moon.  Julie, 
wakeful  in  her  corner  opposite  the  little,  sleeping  Duch- 
ess, was  conscious  of  an  interminable  rush  of  images 
through  a  brain  that  longed  for  a  few  unconscious  and  for- 
getful moments.  She  thought  of  the  deferential  station- 
master  at  Euston ;  of  the  fuss  attending  their  arrival  on 
the  platform;  of  the  arrangements  made  for  stopping  the 
express  at  the  Yorkshire  Station,  where  they  were  to 
alight. 

Faircourt?  Was  it  the  great  Early-Georgian  house  of 
479 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

which  she  had  heard  Jacob  speak — the  vast  pile,  half  bar- 
rack, half  palace,  in  which,  according  to  him,  no  human 
being  could  be  either  happy  or  at  home? 

And  this  was  now  his — and  hers?  Again  the  whirl  of 
thoughts  swept  and  danced  round  her. 

A  wild,  hill  country.  In  the  valleys,  the  blackness  of 
thick  trees,  the  gleam  of  rivers,  the  huge,  lifeless  fac- 
tories; and  beyond,  the  high,  silver  edges,  the  sharp 
shadows  of  the  moors.  .  .  .  The  train  slackened,  and  the 
little  Duchess  woke  at  once. 

"Ten  minutes  to  three.     Oh,  Julie,  here  we  are!" 

The  dawn  was  just  coldly  showing  as  they  alighted. 
Carriages  and  servants  were  waiting,  and  various  persons 
whose  identity  and  function  it  was  not  easy  to  grasp. 
One  of  them,  however,  at  once  approached  Julie  with  a 
privileged  air,  and  she  perceived  that  he  was  a  doctor. 

"I  am  very  glad  that  your  grace  has  come,"  he  said, 
as  he  raised  his  hat.  "The  trouble  with  the  Duke  is 
shock,  and  want  of  sleep." 

Julie  looked  at  him,  still  bewildered. 

"How  long  has  my  husband  been  ill?" 

He  walked  on  beside  her,  describing  in  as  few  words 
as  possible  the  harrowing  days  preceding  the  death  of  the 
boy,  Delafield's  attempts  to  soothe  and  control  the  father, 
the  stratagem  by  which  the  poor  Duke  had  outwitted 
them  all,  and  the  weary  hours  of  search  through  the 
night,  under  a  drizzling  rain,  which  had  resulted,  about 
dawn,  in  the  discovery  of  the  Duke's  body  in  one  of  the 
deeper  holes  of  the  river. 

"When  the  procession  returned  to  the  house,  your 
husband" — the  speaker  framed  the  words  uncertainly — 
"had  a  long  fainting-fit.     It  was  probably  caused  by  the 

480 


SHE    FOUND    HERSELF    KNEELING    BESIDE    HIM 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

exhaustion  of  the  search — many  hours  without  food — 
and  many  sleepless  nights.  We  kept  him  in  his  room  all 
day.  But  towards  evening  he  insisted  on  getting  up. 
The  restlessness  he  shows  is  itself  a  sign  of  shock.  I 
trust,  now  you  are  here,  you  may  be  able  to  persuade 
him  to  spare  himself.  Otherwise  the  consequences 
might  be  grave." 

The  drive  to  the  house  lay  mainly  through  a  vast  park, 
dotted  with  stiff  and  melancholy  woods.  The  morning 
was  cloudy;  even  the  wild  roses  in  the  hedges  and  the 
daisies  in  the  grass  had  neither  gayety  nor  color.  Soon 
the  house  appeared — an  immense  pile  of  stone,  with  a 
pillared  centre,  and  wings  to  east  and  west,  built  in  a 
hollow,  gray  and  sunless.  The  mournful  blinds  drawn 
closely  down  made  of  it  rather  a  mausoleum  for  the 
dead  than  a  home  for  the  living. 

At  the  approach  of  the  carriage,  however,  doors  were 
thrown  open,  servants  appeared,  and  on  the  steps,  trem- 
bling and  heavy-eyed,  stood  Susan  Delafield. 

She  looked  timidly  at  Julie,  and  then,  as  they  passed 
into  the  great  central  hall,  the  two  kissed  each  other 
with  tears. 

"He  is  in  his  room,  waiting  for  you.  The  doctors 
persuaded  him  not  to  come  down.  But  he  is  dressed, 
and  reading  and  writing.  We  don't  believe  he  has  slept 
at  all  for  a  week." 

"Through  there."  said  Susan  Delafield,  stepping  back. 
"That  is  the  door." 

Julie  softly  opened  it,  and  closed  it  behind  her.  Dela- 
field had  heard  her  approach,  and  was  standing  by  the 
table,  supporting  himself  upon  it.     His  aspect  filled  Julie 

481 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

with  horror.  She  ran  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  round 
him.  He  sank  back  into  his  chair,  and  she  found  herself 
kneeUng  beside  him,  murmuring  to  him,  while  his  head 
rested  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Jacob,  I  am  here!  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  been  here  all 
through!  It's  terrible — terrible!  But,  Jacob,  you  won't 
suffer  so — now  I'm  here — now  we're  together — now  I 
love  you,  Jacob?" 

Her  voice  broke  in  tears.  She  put  back  the  hair  from 
his  brow,  kissing  him  with  a  tenderness  in  which  there 
was  a  yearning  and  lovely  humility.  Then  she  drew  a 
little  away,  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  in  an  agony. 

But  for  a  time  he  seemed  unable  to  speak.  He  feebly 
released  himself,  as  though  he  could  not  bear  the  emotion 
she  offered  him,  and  his  eyes  closed. 

"Jacob,  come  and  lie  down!"  she  said,  in  terror.  "Let 
me  call  the  doctors." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  a  faint  pressure  from  his  hand 
bade  her  sit  beside  him. 

"  I  shall  be  better  soon.    Give  me  time.    I'll  tell  you — " 

Then  silence  again.  She  sat  holding  his  hand,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Time  passed,  she  knew  not  how. 
Susan  came  into  the  room — a  small  sitting-room  in  the 
east  wing — to  tell  her  that  the  neighboring  bedroom  had 
been  prepared  for  herself.  Julie  only  looked  up  for  an 
instant  with  a  dumb  sign  of  refusal.  A  doctor  came  in, 
and  Delafield  made  a  painful  effort  to  take  the  few 
spoonfuls  of  food  and  stimulant  pressed  upon  him. 
Then  he  buried  his  face  in  the  side  of  the  arm-chair. 

"Please  let  us  be  alone,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  his 
old  peremptoriness,  and  both  Susan  and  the  doctor 
obeyed. 

482 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

But  it  was  long  before  he  could  collect  energy  enough 
to  talk.  When  he  did,  he  made  an  effort  to  tell  her  the 
story  of  the  boy's  death,  and  the  father's  self-destruction. 
He  told  it  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  his  hands  loosely  joined,  his  voice  broken  and 
labored.  Julie  listened,  gathering  from  his  report  an 
impression  of  horror,  tragic  and  irremediable,  similar  to 
that  which  had  shaken  the  balance  of  his  own  mind. 
And  when  he  suddenly  looked  up  with  the  words,  "And 
now  /  am  expected  to  take  their  place — to  profit  by 
their  deaths!  What  rightful  law  of  God  or  man  binds 
me  to  accept  a  life  and  a  responsibility  that  I  loathe?" 
Julie  drew  back  as  though  he  had  struck  her.  His  face, 
his  tone  were  not  his  own — there  was  a  violence,  a  threat 
in  them,  addressed,  as  it  were,  specially  to  her.  "If  it 
were  not  for  you,"  his  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "I  could  re- 
fuse this  thing,  which  will  destroy  me,  soul  and  body." 

She  was  silent,  her  pulses  fluttering,  and  he  resumed, 
speaking  like  one  groping  his  way : 

"  I  could  have  done  the  work,  of  course — I  have  done 
it  for  five  years.  I  could  have  looked  after  the  estate 
and  the  people.  But  the  money,  the  paraphernalia,  the 
hordes  of  servants,  the  mummery  of  the  life!  Why,' 
Julie,  should  we  be  forced  into  it?  What  happiness — I 
ask  you — what  happiness  can  it  bring  to  either  of  us?" 

And  again  he  looked  up,  and  again  it  seemed  to  Julie 
that  his  expression  was  one  of  animated  hostility  and 
antagonism — antagonism  to  her,  as  embodying  for  the 
moment  all  the  arguments — of  advantage,  custom,  law — 
he  was,  in  his  own  mind,  lighting  and  denying.  With  a 
failing  heart  she  felt  herself  very  far  from  him.  Was 
there  not  also  something  in  his  attitude,  unconsciously, 

483 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

of  that  old  primal  antagonism  of  the  man  to  the  wom- 
an, of  the  stronger  to  the  weaker,  the  more  spiritual  to 
the  more  earthy? 

"You  think,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "that 
it  is  my  duty  to  take  this  thing,  even  if  I  co^dd  lay  it 
down?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 
"It  is  very  strange,  of  course,  what  you  say.  We 
ought  to  discuss  it  thoroughly.  Let  me  have  a  little 
time." 

He  gave  an  impatient  sigh,  then  suddenly  rose. 

"Will  you  come  and  look  at  them?" 

She,  too,  rose  and  put  her  hand  in  his. 

"Take  me  where  you  will." 

"It  is  not  horrible,"  he  said,  shading  his  eyes  a  mo- 
ment.    "They  are  at  peace." 

With  a  feeble  step,  leaning  on  her  arm,  he  guided  her 
through  the  great,  darkened  house.  Julie  was  dimly 
aware  of  wide  staircases,  of  galleries  and  high  halls,  of 
the  pictures  of  past  Delafields  looking  down  upon  them. 
The  morning  was  now  far  advanced.  Many  persons 
were  at  work  in  the  house,  but  Julie  was  conscious  of 
them  only  as  distant  figures  that  vanished  at  their  ap- 
proach. They  walked  alone,  guarded  from  all  intru- 
sion by  the  awe  and  sympathy  of  the  unseen  human 
beings  around  them. 

Delafield  opened  the  closed  door. 

The  father  and  son  lay  together,  side  by  side,  the 
boy's  face  in  a  very  winning  repose,  which  at  first  sight 
concealed  the  traces  of  his  long  suffering;  the  father's 
also — closed  eyes  and  sternly  shut  mouth — suggesting, 
not  the  despair  which  had  driven  him  to  his  death,  but, 

484 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

rather,  as  in  sombre  triumph,  the  all-forgetting,  all-effac- 
ing sleep  which  he  had  won  from  death. 

They  stood  a  moment,  till  Delafield  fell  on  his  knees. 
Julie  knelt  beside  him.  She  prayed  for  a  while;  then  she 
wearied,  being,  indeed,  worn  out  with  her  journey.  But 
Delafield  was  motionless,  and  it  seemed  to  Julie  that  he 
hardly  breathed. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  found  her  eyes  for  the  first 
time  flooded  with  tears.  Never  for  many  weeks  had  she 
felt  so  lonely,  or  so  utterly  unhappy.  She  would  have 
given  anything  to  forget  herself  in  comforting  Jacob. 
But  he  seemed  to  have  no  need  of  her,  no  thought  of 
her. 

As  she  vaguely  looked  round  her,  she  saw  that  beside 
the  dead  man  was  a  table  holding  some  violets  —  the 
only  flowers  in  the  room — some  photographs,  and  a  few 
well-worn  books.  Softly  she  took  up  one.  It  was  a 
copy  of  the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Anrclius,  much  noted 
and  underlined.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her  sacrilege 
to  look  too  close;  but  she  presently  perceived  a  letter 
between  its  pages,  and  in  the  morning  light,  which  now 
came  strongly  into  the  room  through  a  window  lookfng- 
on  the  garden,  she  saw  plainly  that  it  was  written  on 
thin,  foreign  paper,  that  it  was  closed,  and  addressed  to 
her  husband. 

"Jacob!" 

She  touched  him  softly  on  the  shoulder,  alarmed  by 
his  long  immobility. 

He  looked  up,  and  it  appeared  to  Julie  as  though  he 
were  shaking  off  with  difficulty  some  abnormal  and 
trancelike  state.     But  he  rose,  looking  at  her  strangely. 

"Jacob,  this  is  yours." 

485 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

He  took  the  book  abruptly,  almost  as  if  she  had  no 
right  to  be  holding  it.  Then,  as  he  saw  the  letter,  the 
color  rushed  into  his  face.  He  took  it,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  walked  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

She  saw  him  waver,  and  ran  to  his  support.  But  he 
put  out  a  hand  which  checked  her. 

"It  was  the  last  thing  he  wrote,"  he  said;  and  then, 
"uncertainly,  and  without  reading  any  but  the  first  words 
of  the  letter,  he  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

Julie  drew  back,  humiliated.  His  gesture  said  that  to 
a  secret  so  intimate  and  sacred  he  did  not  propose  to 
admit  his  wife. 

They  went  back  silently  to  the  room  from  which  they 
'liad  come.  Sentence  after  sentence  came  to  Julie's  lips, 
Tbut  it  seemed  useless  to  say  them,  and  once  more,  but  in 
;a  totally  new  way,  she  was  "afraid"  of  the  man  beside 
jher. 

She  left  him  shortly  after,  by  his  own  wish. 

"I  will  lie  down,  and  you  must  rest,"  he  said,  with 
decision. 

^o  she  bathed  and  dressed,  and  presently  she  allowed 
'tlie  kind,  fair-haired  Susan  to  give  her  food,  and  pour 
out  her  own  history  of  the  death-week  which  she  and 
Jacob  had  passed  through.  But  in  all  that  was  said, 
Julie  noticed  that  Susan  spoke  of  her  brother  very  little, 
and  of  his  inheritance  and  present  position  not  at  all. 
And  once  or  twice  she  noticed  a  wondering  or  medita- 
tive expression  in  the  girl's  charming  eyes  as  they  rested 
on  herself,  and  realized  that  the  sense  of  mystery,  of 
liushed  expectancy,  was  not  confined  to  her  own  mind. 

When  Susan  left  her  at  nine  o'clock,  it  was  to  give  a 

486 


Ladg    Rose's    Daughter 

number  of  necessary  orders  in  the  house.  The  inquest 
was  to  be  held  in  the  morning,  and  the  whole  day  would 
be  filled  with  arrangements  for  the  double  funeral,  'the 
house  would  be  thronged  with  officials  of  all  sorts. 
"Poor  Jacob!"  said  the  sister,  sighing,  as  she  went  away. 

But  the  tragic  tumult  had  not  yet  begun.  The  house 
was  still  quiet,  and  Julie  was  for  the  first  time  alone. 

She  drew  up  the  blinds,  and  stood  gazing  out  upon 
the  park,  now  flooded  with  light;  at  the  famous  Italian 
garden  beneath  the  windows,  with  its  fountains  and 
statues ;  at  the  wide  lake  which  filled  the  middle  distance ; 
and  the  hills  beyond  it,  with  the  plantations  and  avenues 
which  showed  the  extension  of  the  park  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see. 

Julie  knew  very  well  what  it  all  implied.  Her  years 
with  Lady  Henry,  in  connection  with  her  own  hidden 
sense  of  birth  and  family,  had  shown  her  with  sufficient 
plainness  the  conditions  under  which  the  English  noble 
lives.  She  was  actually,  at  that  moment,  Duchess  of 
Chudleigh ;  her  strong  intelligence  faced  and  appreciated 
the  fact;  the  social  scope  and  power  implied  in  those 
three  words  were  all  the  more  vivid  to  her  imagination 
because  of  her  history  and  up-bringing.  She  had  not 
grown  to  maturity  inside,  like  Delafield,  but  as  an  exile 
from  a  life  which  was  yet  naturally  hers — an  exile,  full, 
sometimes,  of  envy,  and  the  passions  of  envy. 

It  had  no  terrors  for  her — quite  the  contrary — this 
high  social  state.  Rather,  there  were  moments  when  her 
whole  nature  reached  out  to  it,  in  a  proud  and  confident 
ambition.  Nor  had  she  any  mystical  demurrer  to  make. 
The  originality  which  in  some  ways  she  richly  possessed 
was  not  concerned  in  the  least  with  the  upsetting  of  class 

4S7 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

distinctions,  and  as  a  Catholic  she  had  been  taught  loyally 
to  accept  them. 

The  minutes  passed  away.  Julie  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  reverie,  her  head  leaning  against  the  side  of 
the  window,  her  hands  clasped  before  her  on  her  black 
dress.  Once  or  twice  she  found  the  tears  dropping  from 
her  eyes,  and  once  or  twice  she  smiled. 

She  was  not  thinking  of  the  tragic  circumstances  amid 
which  she  stood.  From  that  short  trance  of  feeling  even 
the  piteous  figures  of  the  dead  father  and  son  faded  away. 
Wark worth  entered  into  it,  but  already  invested  with 
the  passionless  and  sexless  beauty  of  a  world  where — 
whether  it  be  to  us  poetry  or  reality — "they  neither 
marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage."  Her  warm  and  liv- 
ing thoughts  spent  themselves  on  one  theme  only — the 
redressing  of  a  spiritual  balance.  She  was  no  longer  a 
beggar  to  her  husband ;  she  had  the  wherewithal  to  give. 
She  had  been  the  mere  recipient,  burdened  with  debts 
beyond  her  paying;  now — 

And  then  it  was  that  her  smiles  came  —  tremluous. 
fugitive,  exultant. 

A  bell  rang  in  the  long  corridor,  and  the  slight  sound 
recalled  her  to  life  and  action.  She  walked  towards 
the  door  which  separated  her  from  the  sitting-room 
where  she  had  left  her  husband,  and  opened  it  without 
knocking. 

Delafield  was  sitting  at  a  writing-table  in  the  window. 
He  had  apparently  been  writing;  but  she  found  him  in  a 
moment  of  pause,  playing  absently  with  the  pen  he  still 
held. 

As  she  entered  he  looked  up,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 

4S8 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

his  aspect  and  his  mood  had  changed.  Her  sudden  and 
indefinable  sense  of  this  made  it  easier  for  her  to  hasten 
to  him,  and  to  hold  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"Jacob,  you  asked  me  a  question  just  now,  and  I 
begged  you  to  give  me  time.  But  I  am  here  to  answer 
it.  If  it  would  be  to  your  happiness  to  refuse  the  duke- 
dom, refuse  it.  I  will  not  stand  in  your  way,  and  I  will 
never  reproach  you.  I  suppose"  —  she  made  herself 
smile  upon  him — "there  are  ways  of  doing  such  a  strange 
thing.  You  will  be  much  criticised,  perhaps  much 
blamed.  But  if  it  seems  to  you  right,  do  it.  I'll  just 
stand  by  you  and  help  you.  Whatever  makes  you 
happy  shall  make  me  happy,  if  only — " 

Delafield  had  risen  impetuously  and  held  her  by  both 
hands.  His  breast  heaved,  and  the  hurrying  of  her  own 
breath  would  now  hardly  let  her  speak. 

"If  only  what?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

She  raised  her  eyes. 

"If  only,  mon  ami" — she  disengaged  one  hand  and 
laid  it  gently  on  his  shoulder — "you  will  give  me  your 
trust,  and" — her  voice  dropped — "your  love!" 

They  gazed  at  each  other.  Between  them,  around 
them  hovered  thoughts  of  the  past — of  Wark worth,  of 
the  gray  Channel  waves,  of  the  spiritual  relation  which 
had  grown  up  between  them  in  Switzerland,  mingled 
with  the  consciousness  of  this  new,  incalculable  present, 
and  of  the  growth  and  change  in  themselves. 

"You'd  give  it  all  up?"  said  Delafield,  gently,  still 
holding  her  at  arm's-length. 

"Yes,"  she  nodded  to  him,  with  a  smile. 

"  For  me?     For  my  sake?" 

She  smiled  again.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turn- 
489 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

ing  to  the  table  behind  him,  took  up  a  letter  which  was 
lying  there. 

"I  want  you  to  read  that,"  he  said,  holding  it  out  to 
her. 

She  drew  back,  with  a  little,  involuntary  frown. 

He  understood. 

"Dearest,"  he  cried,  pressing  her  hand  passionately, 
"I  have  been  in  the  grip  of  all  the  powers  of  death! 
Read  it — be  good  to  me!" 

Standing  beside  him,  with  his  arm  round  her,  she 
read  the  melancholy  .Duke's  last  words: 

"My  dear  Jacob, — I  leave  you  a  heavy  task,  which  I 
know  well  is,  in  your  eyes,  a  mere  burden.  But,  for  my 
sake,  accept  it.  The  man  who  runs  away  has  small  right  to 
counsel  courage.  But  you  know  what  my  strtiggle  has  been. 
You'll  judge  me  mercifully,  if  no  one  else  does.  There  is  in 
you,  too,  the  little,  bitter  drop  that  spoils  us  all;  but  you 
won't  be  alone.  You  have  your  wife,  and  you  love  her. 
Take  my  place  here,  care  for  our  people,  speak  of  us  some-^ 
times  to  your  children,  and  pray  for  us.  I  bless  you,  dear 
fellow.  The  only  moments  of  comfort  I  have  ever  known 
this  last  year  have  come  from  you.  I  would  live  on  if  I 
could,  but  I  must — must  have  sleep." 

Julie  dropped  the  paper.  She  turned  to  look  at  her 
husband. 

"Since  I  read  that,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have 
been  sitting  here  alone — or,  rather,  it  is  my  belief  that  I 
have  not  been  alone.  But" — he  hesitated — "it  is  very 
difficult  for  me  to  speak  of  that — even  to  you.  At  any 
rate,  I  have  felt  the  touch  of  discipline,  of  command. 
My  poor  cousin  deserted.  I,  it  seems" — he  drew  a  long 
and  painful  breath — "must  keep  to  the  ranks." 

490 


Lady    Rose's    Daughter 

"Let  us  discuss  it,"  said  Julie;  and  sitting  down,  hand 
in  hand,  they  talked  quietly  and  gravely. 

Suddenly,  Delafield  turned  to  her  with  renewed  emo- 
tion. 

"I  feel  already  the  energy,  the  honorable  ambition 
you  will  bring  to  it.  But  still,  you'd  have  given  it  up, 
Julie?     You'd  have  given  it  up?" 

Julie  chose  her  words. 

"Yes.  But  now  that  we  are  to  keep  it,  will  you  hate 
me  if,  some  day — when  we  are  less  sad — I  get  pleasure 
from  it?  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  help  it.  When  we  were  at 
La  Verna,  I  felt  that  you  ought  to  have  been  born  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  that  you  were  really  meant  to  wed 
poverty  and  follow  St.  Francis.  But  now  you  have  got 
to  be  horribly,  hopelessly  rich.  And  I,  all  the  time,  am 
a  worldling,  and  a  modern.  What  you'll  suffer  from, 
I  shall  perhaps — enjoy." 

The  word  fell  harshly  on  the  darkened  room.  Dela- 
field shivered,  as  though  he  felt  the  overshadowing  dead. 
Julie  impetuously  took  his  hand.  ' 

"It  will  be  my  part  to  be  a  worldling — for  your  sake," 
she  said,  her  breath  wavering.  Their  eyes  met.  From 
her  face  shone  a  revelation,  a  beauty  that  enwrapped 
them  both.  Delafield  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and 
laid  his  head  upon  her  breast.  The  exquisite  gesture 
with  which  she  folded  her  arms  about  him  told  her 
inmost  thought.  At  last  he  needed  her,  and  the  dear 
knowledge  filled  and  tamed  her  heart. 


R, 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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